


Legwork

by yonwords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonwords/pseuds/yonwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The boy sat on the farthest bench on the platform, slumped in his seat as though asleep." Lestrade gets to be the hero of his own detective novella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Ethan

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I know about actual police work I learned from television and mystery novels, which means I know nothing whatsoever. I made everything up. Please ignore all glaring inaccuracies.

PART ONE:  
Ethan

The boy sat on the farthest bench on the platform, slumped in his seat as though asleep. His chin brushed his chest, his hands were shoved into the pockets of his coat. A rucksack sat propped between his feet. They didn’t know yet how long he’d been there before a fellow passenger tripped over one of his outstretched legs, apologized, and realized something was wrong.

It could have been natural—an aneurysm, a heart defect, no need for Scotland Yard—except the wire was still embedded in his throat.

Lestrade stood in front of the teen, his arms crossed, trying to will the body to tell him what had happened.

“Strangled in the bloody Archway Station in front of God and everyone,” Anderson muttered at his elbow. “And then just left there for the morning commuters.”

Lestrade wasn’t listening. Anderson’s one redeeming quality was his ability to annoy Sherlock Holmes simply by existing, but Holmes wasn’t here, which meant Lestrade had little use for Anderson beyond maintaining the crime scene.

He stared at the victim, trying to catalogue details. Holmes drove him crazy most of the time, but there was no denying he was brilliant, and Lestrade wasn’t too proud to admit that he could learn something from the younger man’s methods. So he looked at the boy, and he tried to observe.

The kid, Ethan Trent, looked about sixteen—old enough to start putting on height in earnest, but too young to have grown into it. His school uniform was loose and rumpled, his hair just long enough to get in his eyes, curl over his collar. Parka over the uniform, scarf around his neck, neatly hiding the wire. Another wire crawled from his earbuds to his right pocket. At first glance—and second, even third—he just looked like a teen who’d fallen asleep waiting for the Tube on his way to school.

Lestrade reached forward with a gloved hand and raised the boy’s chin, looked into his face. A good-looking kid. No bruises on his face beyond the discoloration caused by asphyxiation, but his throat showed the claw marks of desperation. Lestrade gently lowered the boy’s head again and examined his hands. He’d have to wait for the lab results to find out if any of the skin beneath the boy’s fingernails belonged to someone else. Beyond the scratches and bruises Ethan had likely given himself, though, there was little sign of a struggle. It had happened fast.

Then there was the fact that the murderer had gone to the trouble to arrange the body. That took time and privacy, two things severely lacking during peak time on a Thursday morning.

“What’s in his bag?” he asked.

“Two textbooks—history and biology—corresponding notebooks, other school supplies. Couple granola bars—not necessarily in their wrappers—music magazine, and a whole mess of loose paper,” Donovan said.

Lestrade looked up at her, vaguely wondered where Anderson had gone, then decided he didn’t really care. “Wallet?”

“Doesn’t look like a robbery. HSBC debit card and twelve pounds in cash are still there, along with a school ID, Oyster card, and a gift card to Virgin Records. We’re ready to contact the parents as soon as you give the word.”

“If we’ve got his address, I’ll go to the house. His phone?”

“No phone, just the iPod.”

Lestrade frowned. “Well, that’s interesting.” He looked up, scanning the top of the wall until he came to one of the cameras bolted into it. “Is BTP getting us security tapes?”

“You’re going to love this,” Donovan said in a tone that meant no, actually, he would not love this. “Transport police apologize, but the security cameras in this station—and a couple dozen others—have been inoperable since last summer due to budget cuts.”

Lestrade stared up at the dead camera. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Donovan frowned at the body. “Think the killer knew that?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But strangling a kid on an Underground platform doesn’t seem terribly pre-meditated. Probably they just got lucky.”

“Wonderful,” Donovan muttered.

Lestrade turned back to Ethan Trent and let his eyes wander over the area surrounding his body—the floor, already littered with discarded copies of that morning’s _Metro_ ; the tile wall behind his head, grout permanently blackened by soot; the vending machine peddling Smarties and Walkers crisps, its plastic window scratched into obscurity by bored teenagers. The two other seats on the bench were empty. Lestrade took a step to the side and crouched so he could see under the bench. More _Metro_ s, a coffee cup, and a greasy paper sack that had probably held a sausage roll.

He stood, trying to pull a magical deduction from the air, and came up with nothing.

He wasn’t terribly surprised.

He turned to look down the platform, where the forensics team waited. “I suppose they want me out of their way.”

“Sooner they finish, the sooner we get the line open again.”

“And the sooner northern London stops hating us.”

* * *

The reporters had already arrived. Of course they had. You couldn’t shut down half the Northern Line for hours without the entire city noticing.

Lestrade gestured for Donovan to deal with them and headed toward his car. As he walked, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Holmes had texted him.

 _In Belgium. You’re on your own. SH_

Wondering how the hell Sherlock Holmes knew about the murder already, and what could possibly be interesting enough to hold his attention in Belgium, Lestrade typed, _I’ll manage._

The reply came almost before his message had finished sending. _Doubtful._

Lestrade rolled his eyes and texted Nikki. _Call me when you get a chance._ She was in school by now, but she’d call between classes or during her lunch period. She’d laugh at him for worrying, but she’d call.

He reached his car and stopped by the driver’s side door, his eyes closed. Donovan found him there fifteen minutes later.

“The parents’ address?” he asked without opening his eyes. He lifted one hand, and Donovan laid a piece of paper across his palm. When she didn’t speak, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Are you…do you want me to tell them?” she asked, her manner softer than usual. “It’s just, I saw you sending a text. Checking on Nikki?”

Lestrade felt the corner of his mouth lift. “I’ll talk to the Trents. Maybe my ability to sympathize will help.” He looked back toward the Tube station. “Not that anything can possibly help.”

* * *

The Trents huddled together on their sofa, eyes glazed and faces pale. Mrs. Trent had covered her mouth with her hand four minutes ago and hadn’t moved or made a sound since. Mr. Trent kept opening and closing his mouth, then looking dazedly around the room, as though Ethan might walk in from the kitchen or slip out from behind the curtains.

Lestrade sat stiffly in an armchair and watched them. Donovan stood near the fireplace. She hadn’t said a word since they entered the narrow rowhouse, and he didn’t expect her to. This was his job. A clock ticked impassively on the mantel, and he waited, mentally playing through how the conversation would go. He’d been through enough of them to recognize the types and predict their behavior. Mrs. Trent was out of it, probably for several days, but the husband would rally enough in another minute or two to repeat—

“Murdered?” Mr. Trent breathed, broken.

Lestrade nodded. There was nothing else he could say to that.

Ethan’s father swallowed twice before he could speak again. “But why—who—“

When his voice stopped up, Lestrade began to speak. “That’s what we’re going to find out, Mr. Trent. I know this is the worst possible time, and I am so sorry about this, but I need to ask you some questions.”

Trent nodded several times before he seemed to really understand and focus on Lestrade.

“When did you last see Ethan?” Lestrade asked.

Trent blinked three times and took a deep breath. “Last night. After dinner he went out with some friends, to the cinema. He got in about 10:30, said goodnight, and went to bed. We—“ He choked. “We didn’t see him this morning. He had an early basketball practice at school. He was gone before we woke up.”

“And he seemed normal, last night?”

Trent nodded, a lost, glazed look spreading across his features. Lestrade only had a few more minutes before the grief took them.

“He hasn’t gotten in any trouble recently? Grades dropping, running with a bad crowd—drugs, maybe?”

“No, no, never, nothing.” Trent closed his eyes. “He’s just a boy.”

Mrs. Trent made a small sound, like the shattering of crystal, and drooped forward until both hands covered her face. The first of the sobs slipped through her fingers.

Lestrade glanced at Donovan, and she moved toward the door. He stood and placed his card on the coffee table. “I’ll go now, but please call if you can think of anything that might help us—any recent changes in Ethan’s routine, for instance. Or if you need anything.” He managed to catch Trent’s eye. “I’m so sorry.”

They let themselves out.

At the car, Lestrade dropped into the driver’s seat and just breathed for a long minute. Donovan slid into the passenger side and waited.

“Late this afternoon, I want you to come back with a small team and go through his room,” he said. “You know what to look for. In the meantime, get started on his phone records. I want them as soon as possible, so pull whatever rank you have to with the provider.”

“Right.”

As he started the car, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked that he hadn’t missed any calls, then took it off silent. Donovan watched him, her usual suspicion and cynicism seeping back into her expression.

“You haven’t contacted the freak, have you?” she asked.

“He contacted me, actually.” He pulled away from the curb and waited until the next intersection to say, “You’ll be pleased to hear he’s in Belgium. Unavailable.”

“Well, thank god for that,” Donovan grumbled. Lestrade hadn’t put his finger on the exact source of her vitriol where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, but the source didn’t matter when it came to his team functioning on a day-to-day basis.

“Sally, we need him.”

“We do _not_ ,” she spit. “We were getting along just fine before he came along and threw his bloody psychotic genius in our faces. Why do you put up with him? All he does is insult us—including you.”

“Seven cases in the last year we couldn’t have solved without him,” Lestrade said, “plus a dozen more that would have taken us three times as long. I can’t ignore numbers like that. Whatever he does, however he does it, we need him. Frankly, I’m just glad he’s on our side.”

“Yeah, for how long?”

Lestrade turned toward Central London and lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “Hopefully we never find out the answer to that question.”

* * *

Lestrade climbed the front steps of Thomas Cranmer School and pushed through the heavy glass and iron door. A woman stood just inside, waiting for him. In a narrow, knee-length skirt, simple white blouse, and flat shoes, her hair pulled back, she cut a severe figure that sent Lestrade back to his own school days. Then she held out a hand and forced a smile, and the illusion was broken. As he closed the distance between them, he could tell she’d been crying.

“Liz Carrow, Deputy Head,” she said, Wales hiding behind her vowels. Her voice was lower than he expected from looking at her, with a slight rasp that matched her red eyes.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

He shook her hand, and she swallowed. “You’ll forgive me if I say I’m not pleased that you’re here.”

“No less pleased than I am.”

Her smile widened but took on a sad, bitter element Lestrade liked. It made her—and her response—real. “If we’re going to compete about who feels worse, you should remember I actually knew Ethan.”

Lestrade nodded, conceding the point, and Ms. Carrow led him down the hallway and into the administrative office block. She waved him to a chair and then, instead of sitting behind her desk, took the chair next to his. She leaned toward the desk, picked up a folder, and handed it to him.

“Mr. Bauer is on a call and will join us in just a few minutes. In the meantime, this is Ethan’s file. I’m not sure if anything in there will help you, but I figured it’s a start.”

Lestrade thanked her and opened the file, quickly skimming its contents. Ethan seemed to be a good kid—decent grades, if not outstanding, and rarely in trouble. His only extracurricular activity was basketball. Nothing out of the ordinary, either good or bad. Which was extremely unhelpful, but he’d make sure he left with a copy of everything in the file, just in case.

He looked up at Ms. Carrow. “Has Ethan’s behavior changed at all recently? Did he fall out with any of his friends or pick up any new ones? Any signs he’d gotten into drugs or a gang?”

She looked down at the fabric of her skirt, a tiny line appearing above her nose. “We don’t have a lot of gang activity in the school. Drugs, on the other hand…” She turned her head and frowned at the wall, as though she could see through it to the hallway and students beyond. “But no, I hadn’t noticed any such signs in Ethan, or heard any concerns from his teachers.”

Lestrade closed the file. “Who did he run around with?”

Ms. Carrow looked back at him, and the directness of her gaze surprised him a little. He was used to people avoiding his eyes, trying to hide from him. “I’ve most often seen him with some other boys from the basketball team, and he started dating Amanda Ling this year.”

“Amanda Ling?”

She stood. “I’ll get her file.” That sad smile returned, smaller this time. “For what it’s worth.”

She left him in her office, and Lestrade looked around. The desk was L-shaped, the side against the wall cluttered with paperwork, books, envelopes, and educational journals. The length that stretched out into room was clean, ready for work, computer and diary relegated to the far corners.

The requisite potted fern stood in one corner, as well as a framed degree from Bristol on the wall. The only personal touches he could see were a bulletin board covered with thank you notes, Christmas cards, and letters—from students, he guessed—and a black-and-white photo of a small house near a rugged shoreline that hung where she could see it from her desk chair.

A man stepped into the office, making it feel smaller simply by standing there. Lestrade stood to greet him, noting the other man was about four inches taller and probably outweighed him by three stone. Very little of him had gone to fat, despite being about ten years older than Lestrade. With a Head like this, Lestrade doubted the school had many disciplinary problems.

“Gerald Bauer,” the man said. His light brown hair had thinned and retreated from his temples, but his eyes were sharp and bright, the kind of eyes that didn’t miss much.

Lestrade introduced himself, shook Bauer’s hand, and watched him walk around Ms. Carrow’s desk and sit in her chair. He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it across to Lestrade. _Gerald Bauer. Highgate Councillor. Head, Thomas Cranmer School._ Lestrade kept the surprise off his face, wondered if it was telling that Bauer had listed his political position first, and slipped the card into his jacket pocket.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Bauer said. “I’ve been on the phone non-stop since you called with the news.”

“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

Bauer shook his head, and the stricken look he wore seemed to elongate the bones of his face. “Of course, of course. Anything you need. Just ask Liz.”

“She’s been very helpful.”

Bauer looked at the door, then seemed to stop himself looking at his watch. He noticed Lestrade watching him and tried to smile. “I’m sorry. It’s just…news like this travels so quickly, and I need to have an assembly, address the students. But before I can do that, I have to notify the faculty, which means going from class to class, and—“ His eyes tracked back toward the door, and relief washed over his face.

A second later, Ms. Carrow entered the office, a file identical to the one in Lestrade’s lap clutched to her chest.

“Liz, excellent.” Bauer stood. “I need to see to the faculty. You’ll take care of Inspector Lestrade?”

He moved toward the door, but Ms. Carrow didn’t move out of his way.

“You should hear this, Gerald.” She looked at Lestrade, and the emotion in her eyes made the muscles in his back tighten. “Amanda Ling didn’t come to school today.”

Lestrade felt that heavy, tired feeling in his gut he’d become too familiar with over the years. It never accompanied anything good.

Bauer closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Miss Ling’s absence could mean any number of things. Just because we’ve had one tragedy today doesn’t mean we’ll have two.”

Lestrade didn’t contradict him, but he could tell Ms. Carrow didn’t believe Bauer, either. She hadn’t yet looked away from Lestrade, and he felt like she was begging him to do something. To fix it.

Bauer checked his watch. “Assembly in an hour, Liz.”

She nodded, her eyes finally leaving Lestrade’s face to watch the Head leave. Lestrade stood and eased the folder from her hands.

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked at him, and the anger in her face surprised him, though he instinctively knew it wasn’t directed at him.

“I’ll find her,” he heard himself say. He tried not to make promises like that, but she’d surprised him twice already, and the knowledge that Amanda Ling was likely in a great deal of trouble made his chest ache.

His words apparently had the desired effect, as Ms. Carrow closed her eyes and the line of her shoulders drooped ever so slightly. When she opened her eyes again, the anger was gone and the sadness had returned. Lestrade thought he preferred the anger. “What else can I get you?” she asked.

He lifted the folder. “Her parents’ contact information is in here?”

She nodded. “Parent. Her mother.”

“Then I’d appreciate it if you could make me a list of Ethan Trent’s and Amanda Ling’s friends and teachers so I can send some officers around to speak with them. Can I see their lockers?”

She nodded again and brushed past him, into the office. She opened a drawer on her desk, pulled out a ring of keys, and motioned for him to follow her.

They walked through the halls of the school in silence, their shoes echoing each other. He watched her as they passed classroom after classroom. He guessed she was in her mid- to late-thirties, a handful of grey strands winding through her dark hair. Her features rode the line between sharp and delicate, but even as he thought the word “delicate,” he rejected it. It didn’t fit this tall, lean woman with runner’s calves who dealt with teenagers all day.

Her head turned slightly toward him, eyes flicking up to his. He didn’t bother hiding his scrutiny, and they watched each other for a few steps. Her eyes were on the green end of hazel, and once again the directness within them surprised him. Most people, when they realized a cop was studying them, looked away. She merely studied him right back.

Before he could wonder what she saw, she turned to lead him around a corner. She halted a few meters later and pressed her palm against locker number 239. “This was Ethan’s,” she said. She selected a key from the ring in her hand, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door for him.

As he pulled on a pair of gloves, Lestrade catalogued the contents. Textbooks. Notebooks. A calculator. Empty crisp packets. A ball cap. Loose papers. A picture of Cristiano Ronaldo hung on the back of the door. Lestrade pulled out the first notebook, and a pen rolled out of the locker and fell to the ground. Ms. Carrow picked it up and placed it carefully on the upper shelf of the locker.

‘Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why.

She nodded and stepped back, watching him as he sifted through the locker’s contents. He shook all the books and notebooks, looked at every scrap of paper—math worksheets, instructions for a history essay assignment, a permission form for a field trip four months earlier, a torn sheet of notebook paper on which _xxx –A_ had been written in purple ink—and even peered into the crisp packets and the corners of the locker. If he’d hoped to find some incriminating note or powder residue, he was disappointed.

He showed Ms. Carrow the _xxx –A_ note. “Amanda?”

“Probably.” She lifted the files from where he’d set them on the ground and opened Amanda Ling’s. “Her locker is 273, across the hall and down a bit.” She closed the folder slowly, looking at him. She set her jaw. “I’m not sure I can let you see it, though. After all, Amanda has not been reported missing, at least not to your apparent knowledge.”

“Ms. Carrow—“

“I, on the other hand, have the right to search any student’s locker at any time.” Her stern look melted into mischief, and he blinked. Before he could respond, her expression faded back into sadness. “And if she’s in trouble, and anything in her locker could help you find her…”

Shaking her head, she crossed the hall, the key to the locker already in her hand. Lestrade closed Ethan Trent’s locker and followed her.

When the locker door opened, a folded piece of paper tumbled out, bouncing off Ms. Carrow’s shoe. Lestrade crouched and picked it up, opening it. He felt Ms. Carrow lean over him, reading over his shoulder.

 _Why didn’t you come back this morning? When are you going to tell me what happened last night? –E_

He looked up, and the expression on Ms. Carrow’s face pulled him back to his feet. He extended a hand but stopped before touching her arm and made himself take a step back.

“Oh God,” she said quietly. She had paled, and it made her eyes darker.

“Was Amanda in school yesterday?” he asked.

She nodded, took a breath, and straightened slightly. “Yes.”

Lestrade pulled a small bag from his pocket and dropped the note inside it, then slipped it back into his pocket. Ms. Carrow didn’t protest. He turned to the locker.

As relatively bare as Ethan’s locker had been, Amanda Ling’s was a riot of decoration and personal effects. Multiple pictures of Ethan with a girl of obvious Asian descent dominated the décor’s theme, but pictures of Amanda with other friends filled the rest of the space. Lestrade pulled out his phone and took pictures of two of the photos that showed her face best. In the back of the locker, taped behind her textbooks, was a picture of a young actor Lestrade recognized but couldn’t name. A hairbrush, various hair accessories, lip gloss, and an unopened can of Pepsi sat on the top shelf.

He went through all her notebooks and textbooks, just as he had Ethan’s, careful to put everything back as he’d found it. A few more handwritten notes lay discarded on the bottom of the locker, but none of them were relevant— _ice cream after school? OMG did you hear about Stasha? Joseph thinks ur hot_ —and all of them were crumpled and dirty, old.

He put the Literature textbook back and carefully shut the locker door. A few feet away, Ms. Carrow leaned back against the bank of lockers, one foot propped up against the wall. She had tilted her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, and Lestrade’s mind conjured an image of her twenty years ago. School uniform, too much eye makeup, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. He ducked his head, unable to hide his smile.

Without moving, she said, “Did Ethan write that note?”

Lestrade waited until she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him. “I don’t think so. The handwriting doesn’t match what I saw in the notebooks in his locker, and if Amanda was at school yesterday, that means the note was put in her locker this morning.”

Ms. Carrow’s eyes flashed with an emotion related to pain, and Lestrade knew he didn’t have to finish. _Ethan never made it to school this morning._

“Of course,” she said. “I’m not thinking clearly.”

She pushed herself off the wall and headed back toward the administrative offices. Lestrade took a moment to run a hand down his face, then followed.

“Sorry to ask you for more,” he said, “but could I have a complete student roster on top of the lists of Ethan’s and Amanda’s friends and teachers? A list of all faculty and employees would be useful as well.”

Ms. Carrow nodded. “Of course. Those are easy enough – I just have to print them off.”

He checked his watch. “If it’s okay, I’ll send my sergeant to pick them up. I’d like to talk to Amanda Ling’s mother.”

They passed the administrative offices, retracing their steps to the school’s entrance. Ms. Carrow paused, her left hand gripping the metal bar that ran the length of the glass door.

“If you need anything else…”

“You’ve been more than helpful. Thank you.” He pulled one of his cards from his jacket pocket. “If you think of anything or come across anything you think is useful, give me a call. Anytime—that number forwards to my mobile when I’m not in the office.”

She looked down at the card, then back up at him. She opened her mouth, then shook her head and gave a small, rueful laugh—at herself, he sensed. She slipped the card into a tiny hip pocket on her skirt.

She opened the door and stepped out into the London winter with him. He stuck out his hand, and after half a second’s hesitation, she took it.

“Ms. Carrow.”

“Inspector. Good luck.”

Lestrade nodded and started down the steps to the street. He turned when he reached his car. Ms. Carrow stood on the top step, arms crossed protectively across her chest, watching him.

* * *

He’d just stepped into his office and was disentangling himself from his coat and scarf when his mobile rang. He fumbled for his pocket and answered without looking at the caller ID.

“Lestrade.”

“I’m _okay_ ,” Nikki said. “But thanks for worrying about me. It’s cute.”

He smiled, tension draining out of his shoulders. “Thanks for calling.”

“Always. You know the rules.” A feminine voice squealed in the background, and Lestrade flinched, pulling the phone an inch away from his ear. “Gotta go,” Nikki said. “History. Catch some bad guys for me!”

She hung up before he could say something sentimental, but he was still smiling as he set the phone on his desk. The smile faded as his eyes found Amanda Ling’s school file. There was no use putting it off.

He got no answer at the Ling residence, but after pulling rank on a secretary to convince her that yes, he really did need to speak to Ms. Ling, he was finally put through to Amanda’s mother at her law office.

“Scotland Yard?” Sophia Ling said in place of a greeting. “What’s this about?”

“Your daughter, Ms. Ling. I need to speak with her.”

Ms. Ling took a loud breath. “Why do you need to speak to my daughter, Inspector Lestrade?” Her voice had hardened, and he wondered if he was speaking to the mother or the solicitor.

“She’s not in any trouble, ma’am,” he said, answering her belligerence with sickening politeness. “It’s about Ethan Trent. I understand they were dating.”

“Yes, they are. Is _he_ in trouble?”

“He was murdered early this morning.”

He heard a gasp and then a loud clatter and assumed Sophia Ling had dropped her phone. There was another five seconds of fumbling before he heard her breathing shallowly. “Murdered? Ethan?”

“I’m afraid so. We need to speak to Amanda, but she didn’t show up at school today. Is she at home?”

“She didn’t go to school?” Ms. Ling repeated, her voice rising in pitch.

Lestrade closed his eyes. “Ms. Ling, do you know where your daughter is?”

“I…she…she should be at school. She should be…oh, God.”

“Did you see her this morning?”

“No. No, she spent the night with a friend. They had a…a project. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”

“What about phone calls or texts? Did you hear from her yesterday at all?”

“Yes. After dinner. Around, er, 8:00. Oh, God…”

He stayed on the phone with her for another twenty minutes, calming and comforting her, asking questions when he could. Amanda and Ethan had been dating for five months. She hadn’t exhibited any personality changes or sudden secretiveness. She was supposed to check in this morning, but when she didn’t, Ms. Ling had assumed the girls had slept in and forgotten in their rush to get to school. She’d sent a text to Amanda at 8:15 that morning but didn’t think it odd that she hadn’t heard back. She’d forgotten, actually, getting absorbed in a case.

After admitting this, Ms. Ling’s shock evolved into full-on sobs, which pulled the concerned secretary into the room. The secretary took charge of the phone, and Lestrade told her to put Ms. Ling in a cab home, then hung up and spent the next five minutes with his head in his hands, staring down at the notebook on which he’d written the name of the friend Amanda Ling had spent the night with.

Edie Frost.

He pulled the note he’d found in Amanda’s locker from his pocket. _Why didn’t you come back this morning? When are you going to tell me what happened last night? –E_

He phoned Donovan, who was at the Trent home, searching Ethan’s room.

“Wrapping up here,” she said. “Another half hour, and we’ll be out.”

“I need you to leave now and get to Thomas Cranmer School in Tufnell Park. There’s a woman there, Liz Carrow, the deputy head. She’s got a stack of information I need you to pick up—student rosters and the like. Ask her about Edie Frost, if she was a student there.” He outlined Amanda Ling’s involvement, probable status as a missing person, and Edie Frost’s link.

“Right.” He heard Donovan give a few orders. “You’re at the Yard?” she asked.

“Yes. How’d you get on with the phone company?”

“Not well.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Lestrade hung up and spent the next hour making calls. He managed to wheedle the coroner into pushing Ethan Trent’s autopsy up to the next day, but the mobile provider insisted they couldn’t get to him before Monday. He sent a request up to the Superintendent to see if he could pull any strings on the phone records, then sent a uniform to the Ling residence so her mother could report Amanda missing. Once she was official, he could use his resources to find her.

He was staring at the picture of Ethan and Amanda he’d captured with his phone when Donovan walked into his office.

“What’d you find?” he asked, setting the phone, photo still displayed, next to the school files and the list of the contents from Ethan’s rucksack.

“Nothing much,” she answered. “Normal kid’s room. No drugs stashed anywhere, only one dirty magazine. IT has Ethan’s laptop, so we’ll see if they turn anything up.” She set an expandable file on his desk with a thud. “Student roster, faculty and staff, the lists you requested, and Edie Frost’s file, compliments of Ms. Carrow.”

“Was she at school today?”

“Ms. Carrow?”

Donovan’s tone jerked Lestrade’s head up, and he glared at her. “Edie Frost.”

Donovan nodded, her mouth twitching. “This morning, at least. The Head held an assembly and announced the news about Ethan. Afterward, any students who felt they were too upset to finish the day were allowed to go home. Edie Frost was one of them.”

He flipped open her file and found her home address and phone number. “Fine. If there’s nothing else, I want you to organize a team for tomorrow morning. I want the contents of Ethan Trent’s and Amanda Ling’s lockers. She should be officially reported as a missing person soon, if it hasn’t already come through.” He waited for Donovan to acknowledge the order and leave, but she continued to stand in front of his desk. He lifted his head. “ _Is_ there something else?”

She smirked. “Just this.” She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to him.

 _Liz Carrow, Deputy Head, Thomas Cranmer School_. He looked back at Donovan, eyes raised. “So?”

She made a small circle with her index finger.

Lestrade flipped the card over and saw another phone number written across the back. He sighed. “What?”

Donovan grinned. “Oh, nothing. It’s just, as I was leaving, this attractive, clearly intelligent woman made it very clear that she would give you whatever _assistance_ you needed, whenever you needed it. And gave me a card to give to you on which she’s written her mobile number.”

“For God’s sake, Donovan, one of her students was murdered and another is missing. Of course she’s willing to help.”

“Help _you_ , maybe.”

“Stop doing that with your voice. You sound like Roberts talking about the poor girl who lives in the flat next to him.”

Donovan’s grin widened and she placed both hands on his desk and leaned toward him. “Did you give her the melancholy detective schtick? Gaze at her with those puppy dog eyes of yours and promise you wouldn’t rest until you’d brought the fiend to justice?”

He glared at her, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up his neck. “I do not have a schtick. Or puppy dog eyes.”

“The schtick might not be conscious, but don’t even tell me that every woman you’ve ever dated hasn’t gone all swoony over your eyes at some point or other.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. His ears felt hot. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Ha!” Donovan straightened and pulled a piece of paper from her trouser pocket. She unfolded it. “Elizabeth Rose Carrow. Age, 39. No known marriages or dependents. Address, Tufnell Park—“

Lestrade lunged across his desk and snatched the page from her hand. Without looking at it, he wadded it up and tossed it in the bin. “Get out.”

“Only eight years younger than you. Not bad.”

“Get _out_ , or you’ll be on traffic duty for the rest of the year.”

Donovan backed toward the door, hands raised in surrender, but her laughter ruined any appearance of contrition. “Just saying you made an impression, is all.”

“I seriously doubt that. Close the door.”

She pulled the door mostly shut, pausing to say, “Don’t stay here until all hours. Melancholy detectives need their rest.”

He threw a pen at the door.

* * *

Lestrade opened the door to his flat and froze. Light spilled into the hallway from the sitting room, and he heard a muffled male voice. He stood in the dark doorway for several tense seconds, then realized he smelled food. Chicken soup. Relaxing, he stepped inside, closed the door, and hung up his coat. He walked quietly down the hallway and paused in the entrance to the sitting room, which had been overrun by the belongings of a fourteen-year-old girl.

The fourteen-year-old girl in question yawned at him from the sofa. Lestrade turned off the telly and lifted her lower legs so he could slide beneath them.

Nikki turned over onto her back, the hair on the right side of her head spreading with static electricity, and wiggled her feet in his lap. He caught them in his hands and squeezed.

“Hi, Daddy. Surprise.” She yawned again. “It’s about time you showed up.” She twisted, trying to see the clock on the wall behind her. “What time is it?”

“After midnight. Please tell me your mother knows you’re here.”

She nodded. “I have full permission to start our weekend early and dutifully texted her after my safe arrival.”

“Haven’t you got school tomorrow?”

“Nope. Teacher Work Day or something. You get me for three whole days.”

“Lucky me.”

She kicked him in the leg, and he grunted, trying not to smile. She flung an arm over her eyes and exhaled, somehow sinking further into the sofa.

“You have got a bed, you know,” he said.

“’M comfy here.”

He shoved her legs onto the floor, and she protested with a sleepy _heyyy_. “To your room with you for some proper sleep, and take some of this stuff with you. I’ll trip over your trainers in the morning and break my neck.”

She grumbled, but she levered herself off the couch and slung her bag over one shoulder. She bobbed toward her room, bending every two steps to pick up a shoe, her coat, a purple glove.

“Goodnight,” he called as she stepped into the hallway.

She stuck her head back into the sitting room and gestured toward the kitchen with her chin. “There’s soup. Don’t pretend you’ve actually eaten anything today.” She gave him a look that reminded him of her mother, then disappeared into the back of the flat.

Lestrade leaned his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. It _was_ comfortable here. Dangerously comfortable, especially as he _hadn’t_ had anything to eat since a sandwich out of a vending machine at lunch.

He shoved himself to his feet and trudged into the kitchen. A small saucepan of chicken soup sat on the stove, slowly congealing. He made a face at it but turned on the burner anyway. Once it warmed up, it’d be mostly edible. While he waited for the soup to boil, he cleared the two empty soup cans out of the sink, ignored the cigarette craving that snuck up on him, and tried not to think about how Ethan Trent was only two years older than Nikki.

He’d called the Frost residence multiple times that evening but not gotten an answer. He’d try again in the morning, along with their work numbers, and if he still couldn’t reach them, he’d just have to find Edie Frost at school.

He ate the soup automatically, hardly tasting it, and had changed into flannel bottoms and a t-shirt when his phone rang. “Fucking hell,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. The phone would have already woken Nikki.

“Sir,” Donovan said, “we’ve found Amanda Ling.”

“Alive?”

Donovan’s silence was not the answer he wanted. He closed his eyes.

“Where?”

“Upper Holloway.”

“Fucking hell,” he said again, though quieter this time, exhaustion dragging at the words. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up and pulled his clothes back on. On his way to the door, he stopped in the doorway of Nikki’s bedroom. She was sitting up in the dark, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave, and finally Nikki lifted her arms and reached for him. He crossed the space from the door to her bed in two strides and pulled her into a hug. She tucked her head under his chin and wrapped her arms around his chest, and Lestrade closed his eyes and breathed her in.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.

She squeezed him and then let go. “I know.”

“Thanks for the soup.”

He locked both deadbolts behind him when he left.


	2. Part Two: Amanda

  
**PART TWO:  
Amanda**   


Amanda Ling had been thrown in a dumpster behind a kebab shop, where an employee found her when he took out the rubbish at the end of his shift. Donovan had already questioned him and sent him home.

Lestrade watched as the forensics team carefully removed the body from the dumpster and laid it out on a tarp.

“Strangled,” Anderson announced from where he knelt at Amanda’s head. “Wire looks similar to the one that did Ethan Trent.”

“What a surprise,” Lestrade muttered.

The medical team huddled around the body, poking and prodding and conferring with each other. After a few minutes, Anderson stood and delivered their verdict. Lestrade tried not to roll his eyes.

“She’s been dead for less than twenty-four hours,” Anderson said, “but not by much. Sometime between midnight and five a.m. yesterday.”

Exactly what Lestrade had expected to hear. He accepted a pair of gloves from a tech and crouched next to Amanda Ling’s body. He went through the pockets of her coat, hoodie, and jeans and came up with nothing.

“Have we found a handbag or rucksack?” he asked Anderson.

Anderson shook his head.

“Dammit.”

Lestrade looked into Amanda Ling’s face, at the scratches and bruises on her throat where she’d clawed at the wire that stole her life away, at the tears in her coat and scuffs on her shoes.

When he stood up, Donovan was there.

“You know where we are, right?” he asked.

She eyed the dank alley, her nose wrinkling at the overpowering presence of rubbish.

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, toward the street. “A mile from Ethan Trent’s house.”

* * *

Mrs. Ling answered the knock on her door very promptly for it being three in the morning. She held a glass in one hand, the dregs of an amber-colored liquid sloshing amongst half-melted ice cubes, and it took half a second for her blood-shot eyes to focus on Lestrade and Donovan. As soon as they did, she burst into noisy, drunken tears, turned, and disappeared into the darkness that filled her home.

Lestrade and Donovan followed the sound of her grief into a side room where Mrs. Ling had, apparently, been sitting in the dark. By the sickly light of the streetlamp shining through the window, Lestrade found a light switch, which illuminated three lamps scattered throughout the room. Mrs. Ling, a sofa the only thing keeping her from sliding to the floor, didn’t seem to notice. Her glass lay at her feet, ice cubes melting into the rug.

With a glance at Donovan, Lestrade took a chair and waited.

An hour later, they left, duty complete and condolences delivered. The streetlights slid silently over them as Lestrade drove Donovan back to her car.

* * *

After two hours of sleep, Lestrade woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of Katy Perry. He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh and hauled himself out of bed.

Nikki stood in front of a frying pan full of scrambled eggs, wielding a spatula and dancing in place. Four slices of bacon sizzled in a pan on the back burner. She’d plugged her iPod into the dock he’d bought her for Christmas, filling his flat with pop music. He was mildly alarmed to realize he knew all the words to this particular song.

When she saw him, Nikki wrinkled her nose and pointed toward the coffee machine with her spatula. The carafe was full.

“I really, really love you,” Lestrade said, pulling a mug from the cabinet and filling it.

“You look terrible.” Nikki flipped the bacon and leaned over the toaster, squinting into its glowing depths with one eye.

“Thanks.” He wedged himself into a chair at the small formica table that barely fit in the kitchen’s tiny breakfast nook. The clock on the wall told him it was just after seven. “Why are you even awake? I thought teenagers slept until mid-afternoon. I was hoping for a nice lie in.”

Nikki flopped an enormous mound of eggs on a plate, added bacon, and turned toward the toaster just as two pieces of toast flew out of it. She set the plate in front of him, handed him a fork, and said, “It’s Friday. You have to go to work.”

“Yes, but why are _you_ awake?” He watched her move back to the stove. Her pajama bottoms were covered in pink penguins. She returned to the table with her own plate, her slice of toast drowning in jam, and started shoveling eggs into her mouth.

Lestrade set down his fork and looked at her.

She stopped with half a slice of bacon on its way to her mouth. “What?”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see you before you took off for the next thirty-six hours.”

He frowned at her. “Rule number three: No guilt trips. Stop playing coy. What do you want?”

Completely unchastened, Nikki licked her fork and smiled at him. “Chloe asked me to go to Westfield with her today.”

He looked down at his eggs, then at his daughter. “That’s it? You got up early and made me breakfast just to ask if you could go shopping?”

“And because I’m wonderful,” Nikki added around a mouthful of bacon.

Shaking his head, Lestrade filled his fork with eggs. “Of course you can go. No point being cooped up in this flat all day. Is Chloe’s mother driving you?”

Nikki shook her head, swallowed. Jesus, her plate was almost empty already. “I’m meeting her at the Bank station at 10:00. We’ll go the rest of the way together.”

He forgot about his food. “No.” Nikki looked startled. He hadn’t meant to say it that loudly, but he didn’t soften his expression. “You’re not taking the Tube by yourself.”

“Why not?” Nikki asked. “I do it all the time. I did it to get here yesterday.”

Something in his throat convulsed at that, but he pushed it down. “Well, you’re not today. I’ll call Chloe’s mom myself, ask her to drive you.”

“She can’t.” Nikki’s voice grew louder. “She’s got _work_.”

“Then I’ll drive you.” He closed his eyes.

“You can’t, either,” Nikki said, speaking the words running through his head. “You’ve got work, too. And I don’t need you to drive me! I’m not a child!”

 _Yes, you are_. He opened his eyes and looked at her, at the furrow her eyebrows made above her nose as she glared at him, at the flush in her cheeks, the set in her jaw she got from her mother. But then her eyes widened, the tension running through her shoulders loosened, and she shrank back slightly.

“Oh,” she said, her voice much smaller. “You’re working on that kid’s murder, aren’t you? The one killed on the Tube.”

He slumped into his chair, surprised to find his knife and fork still in his hands. “Yes.”

When he didn’t say anything else, Nikki said, “It was all over the telly last night.”

“I imagine it was.” He took a breath. “His girlfriend was killed, too. That’s where I went last night. So I’d just…rather you weren’t running around the city on your own today.”

She pushed the last bite of egg around her plate. “All right,” she said quietly.

“Look,” he said, forcing himself to put down his cutlery, “what if I drove you to Chloe’s? Then you could go together the whole way. I’ll pick you up again if I can, but if not, could her mother bring you back here tonight?”

Nikki’s smile was blinding. She lunged out of her chair and bounded back to her bedroom to get dressed, shouting, “Thank you, Daddy!” Her footsteps were as loud as someone three times her size.

Lestrade ate his eggs, humming Katy Perry under his breath.

* * *

Nikki’s friend Chloe sat on the front steps of her row house, and she stood and waved when she saw the police car pull in a few doors down. It had been at least six months since Lestrade had seen Chloe. She was rounder than Nikki—a glimpse of the future for Nikki’s still boy-thin frame—and her hair, which he remembered always swinging around her face in braids, encased her head in a carefully symmetrical halo. Her smile was the same, though, and Lestrade returned her wave through the windshield.

“I think she has a crush on you,” Nikki said.

Lestrade startled and turned to his daughter. “What?”

The expression on her face hovered somewhere between amusement and disgust. “The words ‘silver fox’ left her mouth once. She pretended she was joking, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t.”

Lestrade stared at her. “That is the most disturbing thing you could have ever said to me.”

Amusement won out, and Nikki burst into laughter.

“I’m serious,” he said. “The most disturbing.” He looked back at Chloe, who waved again. He swallowed. Nikki continued to laugh. “Ever. Except once you start dating. We’ll probably have to stop speaking to each other at that point.”

Nikki recovered enough to roll her eyes and opened the car door. “Bye. Don’t worry—I’ll text hourly updates so you know I’m alive.”

“Thank you,” he said with extra solemnity. Nikki grinned, slammed the door, and ran to meet her friend.

Once they were inside, Lestrade pulled back into traffic, still shaking his head.

Halfway to the Yard, his mobile rang.

“Inspector Lestrade?” The voice on the other end—female, Wales hiding behind its vowels—paused. “It’s Liz Carrow.”

“Ms. Carrow,” he said, unable to hide his surprise. He slowed for a stoplight. “What can I do for you?”

“Edie Frost didn’t come to school today.”

He stared at the traffic light.

“Gerald says I’m being paranoid,” Ms. Carrow continued, “that she’s probably just upset about her friend dying, but I’m not willing to take that chance.”

“No,” he said blankly, then again, more firmly, “No. Thank you for calling.” He twisted in his seat and snagged the pile of folders in the back, hauling them into his lap. The light turned green, and the car behind him honked. Lestrade ignored them and opened Edie Frost’s file. “I’ll go to her house now. I wanted to talk to her anyway.”

“Thank you,” Ms. Carrow breathed.

Lestrade put the car back in motion and headed north, toward the Frost home.

Ms. Carrow asked, “Is there…is there any news on Amanda?”

He hesitated too long.

“Oh.” Her breath wavered.

“We found her last night,” he said as gently as he could, navigating a roundabout. “She was killed before Ethan, most likely.”

Another breath, and he could almost hear her pulling herself together. “Right,” she said with more force than necessary, “I’ll inform Mr. Bauer and the rest of the faculty. Thank you, Insp—“

“Before you go,” he said quickly, “my sergeant and a herd of officers are headed your way this morning to collect the contents of Ethan and Amanda’s lockers. If you could round up as many people from the list you made me as possible, they’ll have some questions to ask, as well.”

“Of course.”

For the space of two breaths, they sat on opposite ends of the phone connection, listening to the silence. Lestrade tried to think of something to say, but before he could, she hung up.

He threw his phone at the passenger seat and glared at the traffic light ahead, daring it to turn yellow.

* * *

A small, gray woman opened the door two inches, squinting up at him. “Yes?”

Lestrade pulled out his ID and watched her eyes widen. “Mrs. Frost?”

She shook her head and opened the door a little further, just enough to lean out and peer closer at his ID. He waited until she was satisfied before asking if Mr. or Mrs. Frost were in.

She shook her head again. “They’re on holiday. Spain, they said. I just clean on Mondays and Fridays, see.”

“When did they leave?”

“I don’t know. They were still here when I came on Monday, though.”

“Did they take their daughter with them?”

“No. Staying with a friend, she is. The boys, too. So they told me.” Her eyes brightened. “Has she done something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I was just hoping to speak with them.” He smiled. “Can I ask your name?”

“Linda.” She straightened, her hold on the door relaxing slightly, but still not enough to suggest he might be allowed inside. “Linda Shepherd.”

“Linda.” He kept his smile. “Do you know where the daughter was staying, maybe? Or have a number where I can reach her parents?”

She shrugged. “I just clean the floors.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Wednesday.”

“Right. Well.” He looked longingly toward the interior of the house, but Linda’s gaze sharpened and she pulled the door into herself, bracing her shoulder behind it. He sighed. “Thank you, Ms. Shepherd.”

She shut the door in his face, and Lestrade turned and descended the three steps to the pavement, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went.

“Donovan,” he said when she picked up, “are you at Thomas Cranmer yet?”

“Arrived twenty minutes ago. Where are you?”

“On my way in. While you’re there, I need you to get me a picture of Edie Frost.”

“Don’t tell me she’s gone, too,” Donovan said, sounding annoyed.

At his car, Lestrade turned and looked back up at the Frost house, one of several just like it lining the road. “Her parents are out of the country, and she’s supposedly staying with a friend.”

Donovan scoffed. “Except Amanda Ling told her mother she was staying with Edie Wednesday night. Kids still get away with that?”

He climbed into his car and started the engine. “I don’t know when the Frosts left for sure, but it looks that way, yes.”

“Where the hell did they go, then?”

“I don’t know.” Lestrade pulled away from the curb. “I just hope that when we figure it out, we find Edie Frost alive.”

* * *

Lestrade called every number in Edie Frost’s file, but he couldn’t find her parents. They didn’t answer their mobiles, so he left a message on each one, then called their respective offices. No one there knew where they were staying, only that they’d gone to the Costa del Sol for the week. He stalked out of his office and tasked a sergeant with calling every hotel on the Costa del Sol, ignoring the man’s loose-jawed look of dismay.

Armed with coffee, he returned to his office, listened to three separate voicemails from Gerald Bauer asking for details on the case progression, and spread a London map over most of his desk. Finding Ethan Trent’s neighborhood, he drew a strong black dot at as close an approximation of the Trent’s house location as he could get on a map of this scale. Edie Frost lived three miles from Ethan; he marked her house as well.

His pen moved back toward Ethan’s house, stopping before he got there, and made another dot. The location where Amanda Ling had been found.

He straightened and stared at the rough, off-center zigzag the unconnected dots made. He’d have to dig out a bus route map to be sure, but he was certain that on the street a hundred yards from where Amanda had died—a mile from Ethan’s house—she could have caught a bus to take her back to Edie’s. Or vice versa—if she’d taken a bus from Edie’s, she’d have walked down the street that led to the alley she’d died in.

All he had at this point was speculation, but it seemed to work. Maybe someone had followed her from the bus, but then how had they found Ethan? So they followed her from Ethan’s, then, and went back to wait for him. The killer had to have been watching them; Amanda had died in the night, but Ethan had been found in the Tube station the next morning. Someone had waited.

Lestrade frowned and checked his watch. Donovan wouldn’t be back for another two hours at least. He put in a request for security footage from the traffic light cameras on the roads Amanda had likely traveled, ignored another call from Gerald Bauer, rang the mobile phone company again and got into a heated argument with some sort of supervisor, then went to see what the Yard’s IT department had pulled off Ethan’s laptop. Reading every one of Ethan’s emails in the last month didn’t lead to any brilliant insights into why he and Amanda had been killed, but it did take up the rest of the morning, and by the time he returned to his office, Donovan was waiting for him.

“What have you got?” he asked, brushing past her and entering his office. She followed him inside.

“Contents of Ethan Trent and Amanda Ling’s lockers are with forensics. You can go dig through them to your heart’s content.” She pulled a file from under her arm, opened it, and began to read. “Gerald Bauer, Head. Age 52, city councillor, married Margaret Trentham of the Somerset Trethams, which he said as though I should know who they are.” She paused, looking up at him without raising her head, and Lestrade shrugged. “Elizabath Carrow,” Donovan continued, “who we’ve discussed before, though you might find it interesting to know she was a music teacher before moving up to Deputy Head.” She slapped the file closed. “I, however, do not find it interesting. At all. Nor did the men tasked with interviewing all the teachers. The only interesting thing any of them had to say was one of the history teachers, who admitted to being arrested for possession once. But since he was seventeen years old and it was 1972, and it was barely enough marijuana to bother smoking, he was let off with a warning. Otherwise, they all said the same thing: Ethan and Amanda were good kids, they exhibited no glaring personality changes. Nothing was wrong with them at all. And everyone was home asleep between midnight and five on Wednesday night. Useless, all of them.”

Donovan threw the folder on his desk and glared at him.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said as pleasantly as he could, enjoying watching Donovan grind her teeth. “That was very helpful.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled a photo and a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket, which she tossed on top of the folder. “Edie Frost.”

He didn’t bother watching her storm out, as it happened about twice a week. Instead he picked up the photo, which showed Amanda Ling smiling, her arm around the waist of another girl. Despite being taller than Amanda, Edie looked younger, with her big eyes and bigger smile.

She reminded him of Chloe.

His phone beeped in his pocket, and Lestrade pulled it out, expecting another teasing text from Nikki— _Narrowly avoided death by mannequin. Still kicking_.—like the other three he’d received that morning.

Instead, it was from Holmes.

 _Two of them now, I see. Back on Monday; can clear things up for you then._

Lestrade could feel the lines on his face growing deeper. He deleted the text and dialed the Frosts again, hoping this time they answered.

* * *

Donovan stuck her head in Lestrade’s office that evening, a sympathetic look on her face. He immediately felt his palms begin to sweat.

“Call for you,” she said. Her eyebrows rose. “Highgate councillor Gerald Bauer. Apparently he’s called four times today, and now he’s given up on you and started in on me.”

“I’ve been ignoring him for a reason, you know.”

“Being?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t want to talk to him?”

Donovan frowned. “I’m transferring the call, and you’re taking it. And then I’m going home.” She turned and went back to her desk.

“Should be fun,” Lestrade muttered. He leaned forward, waiting, and picked up the phone when it rang. He could see Donovan gathering her coat. “Lestrade.”

“Inspector! Finally. Gerald Bauer, here. I just wanted to check in, see how you were coming on these murders. Liz tells me Miss Ling has been killed, as well.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“And do you think Ms. Carrow is correct about Edie being missing as well?”

Lestrade hesitated a second, then said, “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Well! This seems to be getting _worse_ as time goes by instead of _better_ , Inspector. Are you close to finding the person responsible?”

“We’re investigating several avenues at the moment and making significant progress,” Lestrade replied, falling back on standard press conference-speak.

“Well, I hope you wrap things up soon. It reflects very badly on the school, three students turning up murdered or missing in the course of a week. This will have a significant negative impact on enrollment for next year.”

Which, of course, would reflect badly on the Head, Lestrade thought. Which was why he was calling.

“Rest assured we are giving this our full effort and attention.”

Bauer sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s all I can ask. I just hope it’s enough.”

For a brief, crazy second, Lestrade thought maybe Bauer and Holmes were in cahoots. Then he closed his eyes tight, opened them again, and asked, “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Oh, besides solving this pair of murders before Thomas Cranmer’s reputation is destroyed forever? No, nothing at all.” Bauer had tried for a jocular, teasing tone, but it came off mostly pompous and annoyed.

“Well, then. Thanks for calling. Always good to know concerned citizens are out there.” And before Bauer could respond, Lestrade hung up.

Donovan appeared again, coat buttoned, scarf wrapped around her throat. “Let me guess,” she said. “‘Hurry up and solve this, you’re making me look bad’?”

Lestrade felt his mouth twist into the sarcastic cousin of a smile. “How could you tell?”

“You get this look. And he gave me the same speech.” She hitched her bag further up her shoulder. “Go home, yeah? It’s dark outside.”

“It’s February. The sun packs it in early.”

Donovan rolled her eyes. “Go feed your daughter before she starves to death.”

“It’s the other way around, actually.” Lestrade looked at the files littering his desk, then stood and put on his suit jacket. “But your point stands.”

“Good.”

Donovan turned and strode toward the exit, and Lestrade followed a few steps behind, shrugging on his coat as he walked.


	3. Part Three: Edie

**PART THREE:  
Edie**

Saturday morning Lestrade left a sleeping Nikki at his flat and went to his office, where he mostly stared at the wall and thought. Outside the glass wall that enclosed his desk, leaving just enough space for two chairs and a small work table, the men and women on the weekend shift answered phones, carried paperwork from one desk to another, and came and went in a constant stream, often accompanied by a member of the public, either victim or perpetrator.

The phone on his desk rang, startling him. He lunged for it, hoping it was one of the Frosts.

“DI Lestrade,” he said, muscles of his back tense.

“Inspector, it’s Liz Carrow.” Her voice sounded different from the last time they’d spoken, lighter. He didn’t know what that meant. “I’d appreciate if you could come by my flat this morning.”

His stomach gave a strange lurch. “Er, why?”

“There’s someone here I think you need to talk to.” He could hear her smile. “Edie Frost.”

* * *

Lestrade took the three flights of stairs to Liz Carrow’s flat two at a time, not caring that he’d be winded by the time he reached the top. He knocked, trying to get his breathing under control.

Ms. Carrow opened the door, and he stepped into the short, narrow entryway without giving her time to invite him in.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Wait.” She pressed a hand to his chest, holding him back.

“But—”

“ _Wait_. Please.”

He reined in his urgency with effort, and she pulled her hand away. Her hair was down, he noted, just brushing her shoulders, and she wore jeans and one of those loose, open sweaters that seemed to be everywhere lately. He blinked, his mind frozen, suddenly, on this image of her, and he realized he’d expected the schoolteacher and instead gotten the person.

“She’s terrified,” Ms. Carrow said. She gave him a pointed look.

Lestrade forced himself to relax and rubbed his forehead. “Right. Sorry. Tell me what happened.”

She wrapped her sweater around herself, covering the simple white vest she wore underneath, and crossed her arms. “She just showed up this morning, about two hours ago. Jumpy, scared out of her wits. She hasn’t said much, but I think she’s been on the street for two days, in this weather.” She tightened her hold on herself. “I don’t think she’s slept at all. Once I got her calmed down enough to get some tea and toast into her, she fell asleep almost immediately.” She looked over her shoulder, toward the flat’s interior. “Your knock didn’t even wake her, though us talking might have.”

“Why’d she come to you, Ms. Carrow?” he asked.

Her smile surprised him, and he saw the flicker of mischief he’d seen in the hallway of her school, when she’d denied him access to Amanda Ling’s locker. “Liz, please. I refuse to be called ‘Ms. Carrow’ on Saturdays.”

Lestrade smiled in return. “Liz, then.” Following an urge, he stuck out his hand. “Greg.”

She took it, squeezing lightly. Her hand was warm. “I remember.”

He was suddenly very glad he hadn’t called Donovan to accompany him.

Liz released his hand and put her smile away. “I don’t know why Edie came to me. Because we’re neighbors of a sort, perhaps. But why isn’t she with her family?”

“They’re in Spain,” he said. “What do you mean, neighbors?”

She frowned. “The Frosts don’t live far from here. Edie walks by my building on her way to the bus, so we see each other on occasion. Weren’t you there yesterday?”

He half-turned, as though he could see through the door behind him and out to the street. He should have realized what neighborhood he was in, but he hadn’t been paying attention as he drove over. He inwardly cursed himself, and it became Sherlock’s voice scolding him in his head. _Idiot_.

“Yes, I was there. Just…distracted.”

Her smiled wavered, the corners of her mouth unsure where to go. “Come on, then.”

He followed her into the flat, taking the few seconds it took to reach the sitting room to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. Liz Carrow’s office had been spare, almost impersonal—a sign, he thought, that she was not there for her own purposes but rather for her students’. Her flat, in contrast, might as well have been wallpapered in her personality.

Framed photographs lined the short hallway, each running along the same theme of the one in her office—rugged coastline, an isolated cottage, a windswept hillside, forest climbing a low range of mountains. They passed the entrance to a small kitchen, the counter crowded with tea paraphernalia, a loaf of bread and a butter knife, a cordless phone. He caught a whiff of cinnamon, and then they turned into the sitting room.

Lestrade paused in the entryway. The room was bright, the curtains and blinds of both street-facing windows thrown open to the morning sun. The furniture was modest and eclectic, but well-cared for, and each piece seemed to have been chosen for its charm and comfort rather than to fit into any decorating scheme. On the wall opposite the windows hung a medium-sized print of a painting Lestrade was sure he should probably recognize. A tall bookshelf was crowded with volumes, mostly novels, from what he could see. In front of the books stood picture frames, out of which smiled a dozen different faces, young and old. Several of them included Liz. On another day, he might have crossed the room to look at them. Curiosity flickered within him, but it snuffed out when his eyes fell on the girl who lay on the sofa.

Edie Frost had curled so tightly into herself in one corner of the sofa that her legs barely spilled over onto the middle cushion. She clutched the throw pillow beneath her head with an intensity that made her look younger than her sixteen years. Lestrade was struck again by how much she reminded him of Chloe, and he couldn’t help breathing a soft, “Thank God” at seeing her alive.

Liz leaned over Edie, placed a hand on her shoulder, and called her name. Edie woke with a startled gasp and shrank back into the sofa. Then her gaze focused on Liz, and she relaxed marginally. Until she noticed Lestrade and stiffened again.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is here to help, Edie,” Liz explained in a low, soothing voice. “I asked him to come.”

Edie slowly sat up, her eyes never leaving Lestrade’s face, none of the tension leaving her body. She let go of the pillow, but in its place she pulled her long legs into her chest and wrapped her arms around them, ducking her head so that most of her face was hidden. Her dark eyes watched him over the denim-clad mounds of her knees. Liz sat next to her, half comfort, half shield, and Lestrade chose a chair on the other side of the room, giving Edie safety in distance.

He smiled. “I’m very glad to meet you, Edie. You don’t know how glad.”

She watched him for a long moment, during which he tried to look pleasant and nonthreatening, and slowly the fear and suspicion in her eyes was joined by something else. “Lestrade?” she repeated, lifting her head just a bit, enough that he could see her nose. Her voice was small, muffled by her legs. “Nikki’s dad?”

He blinked and sat back in his chair. Liz turned her head sharply toward him, eyebrows high on her forehead. “Er, yes,” he said. “How do you know Nikki?”

“London Youth Symphony.” She looked down, then back up. “She’s nice.”

Lestrade smiled. “I’ve always thought so. What do you play?”

One of Edie’s legs lowered so that her foot rested on the floor, but she still hugged the other with both arms. “Cello.” She gazed at him for a moment. “Nikki should be second chair viola, but Mr. Hayworth wouldn’t give it to her because she’s only year nine and he didn’t want to upset the older kids.”

Lestrade felt his smile widen and his eyebrows lift. “Really? All I ever hear is how much she hates practicing.”

Edie’s smile flashed at him from behind her knee, then disappeared, and Lestrade knew he was in.

He glanced at Liz, but the look she was giving him made it hard to look away. He’d seen her smile before, but he realized he’d never seen a real smile from her until now. And this one was clearly for _him_. It was beautiful— _she_ was beautiful, he admitted to himself—and she was smiling at him like that because he had, through the happy accident of his daughter’s feigned hatred for the viola, managed to win Edie Frost’s trust.

He wondered what it would take to earn another of Liz Carrow’s smiles.

He forced his attention back to Edie, who regarded him with her chin propped on her knee. Her fingers fidgeted with the material of her jeans, but she no longer looked ready to bolt out the door.

Lestrade leaned forward. “Edie, I’d like to ask you some questions. About where you’ve been and why, and about your friends, Ethan Trent and Amanda Ling. Would that be all right?”

She nodded and swallowed. “Ethan’s dead,” she said, her voice small. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Amanda?”

Lestrade’s chest ached. “I’m afraid she’s dead too.”

Edie turned her head away, wiped a tear off her cheek. “I thought so,” she whispered.

“Edie,” he said gently, “I need to know what happened.”

She mouthed the word _okay_. He looked at Liz, whose eyes widened with understanding. She nodded once, briskly, a bit of the teacher seeping back into her bearing.

“Shall I take an extraordinarily long time to make tea?” she asked.

Edie didn’t respond, but Lestrade nodded and thanked her, giving her an apologetic look. She smiled and moved quietly into the kitchen.

Edie pulled her other leg back into her chest and took a deep breath. Lestrade took that as permission to begin.

“Do you know who killed Ethan and Amanda?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you know why they were killed?”

She hesitated. “Maybe.”

He waited a moment, then another, but Edie couldn’t seem to find the words she needed. “Were you with them on Wednesday night?” he prompted.

Looking somewhat relieved, she nodded. “Ethan wanted to break into the school. He said it’d be creepy, that some of his friends had done it before and he knew which window to use. I don’t think he wanted me to come, but Amanda did. She was staying the night with me.”

“But you were supposed to be staying with her, right? While your parents are on holiday?” She blinked, and he smiled. “I spoke to your housekeeper yesterday.”

“Oh. Yes.” She produced a tissue from somewhere and wiped her nose. “I thought it was silly that my parents wanted me to go stay with a friend while they were gone. I’m old enough to stay on my own, and I liked the idea of having the house to myself. No little brothers or parents or anyone.” Her smile wobbled but stuck. “So I—I lied to them. Amanda agreed to come over one night, just because. Her mum’s really strict about curfews and so on. We were just going to stay up late eating chocolates and watching films. But then Ethan got this idea.”

“So you went to the school.”

She nodded. “The window didn’t latch right, like he said, and it was pretty creepy. Ethan and Amanda wandered off on their own, you know, so I found Alicia Orr’s locker and left her a secret admirer’s note.” She shrugged and bit her lip. “It’s a bit childish, I know, but it’s exactly the sort of thing she goes crazy over, and I liked the idea of her making an idiot out of herself the rest of term, trying to figure out who it was from.”

Lestrade smiled. “Then what happened?”

“Ethan and Amanda came running around the corner, shushing each other. Ethan was laughing, but Amanda looked upset. They said we needed to leave, but they wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Amanda said it didn’t matter. Ethan wanted to stay out, but she was mad at him, so we went back to my house. She still wouldn’t tell me what had happened.”

Edie sniffed and combed her fingers through her hair until it stayed behind her ear. “We hadn’t been home for very long before Amanda got a text and got _really_ upset. She said Ethan was being an idiot and she needed to go, but she’d be back in an hour or so.” She looked down, and Lestrade saw a tear roll down the side of her nose.

“But she didn’t come back?” he guessed.

She shook her head. “I figured she stayed with Ethan, you know? Or maybe she was so upset that she just went home. But she wouldn’t answer my texts, and she wasn’t at school the next morning. And then—“ Her voice broke. “And then I found out about Ethan.”

“And you got scared.”

“Yes.”

“You did a good job disappearing.” Lestrade smiled and tried to catch her eye, but she’d laid her head on her knees, her face toward the far wall.

They sat in silence. In the kitchen, a phone rang, and Lestrade heard Liz answer. He went over Edie’s story again. His theory about Amanda leaving Edie’s house to go to Ethan’s had been correct, but he still didn’t know who had followed her. He was getting closer to why, though.

“Amanda never told you what she and Ethan saw in the school?” he asked.

In response, Edie straightened and pulled her phone from her back pocket. Lestrade watched her press a string of buttons, and then she held the phone out to him. He stood, crossed the room, and took it from her.

A picture filled the screen. It was dark and grainy, but unmistakably a man and a woman in a half-naked embrace on top of a teacher’s desk in a classroom. Both of their faces were obscured, but Lestrade felt a rush of energy course through his limbs. This was it.

He lifted his head and looked at Edie.

“Ethan sent that to Amanda and me shortly after we got home,” she explained.

“And this is what upset Amanda?”

Edie shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, she was upset, but it wasn’t until about twenty minutes later, after they’d argued for a while, that she finally left to go talk to him in person.”

“What did they argue about?”

“I don’t know. It was all texting.”

He lifted the phone. “Did she know who this was?”

“I think so. But she wouldn’t tell me.”

He looked down at the photo again. “Edie, I can’t begin to explain how incredibly important this is. Thank you.”

She gave him a small smile and wiped her eyes. “You’ll catch them?”

Lestrade felt his face harden. “You bet.”

* * *

He stepped into the kitchen and found Liz cleaning her stove. The counters and sink shone with newly-scrubbed perfection. A radio played softly in the corner. Liz put down her sponge and looked at him.

“She’s washing her face,” he said, “cleaning up a bit. I need to take her in. I’ll feel better if I can keep an eye on her until this is over.”

Liz nodded and, head down, reached for a hand towel. “Did she…” She shook her head. “Never mind. You probably can’t tell me that.”

“She wants you to come, too.”

Her head came up. “Is that okay?”

Lestrade nodded. “I’d appreciate it, actually. If you don’t mind. There’s something you could help me with.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and pulled up the picture Ethan had taken in the school, the one Lestrade had sent to his phone from Edie’s. He stepped closer and held the phone so she could see the screen.

Liz frowned and leaned toward the screen, her shoulder brushing his arm. She looked up at him sharply. “Is that--?”

“Ethan took this in the school the night before he died.”

Anger flashed through her eyes, and she looked back at the screen. “May I?”

He handed her the phone and watched her study the photo, a line of concentration above her nose. After several seconds, she shook her head and handed it back.

“I can’t tell. I’m sorry. Maybe if it were bigger.”

He nodded. “We’ll try it at the Yard. See how big we can get it before the quality goes altogether.”

She turned toward the sink, her back to him, and braced her hands against its edge, the towel still clenched in one fist. “Is that why those children were killed? Because they saw the people in that photo?”

“Possibly.”

Her head lowered, but her back and arms were so tense he could see them quivering. He took half a step toward her and started to say her name, but Edie appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Are we going?” the girl asked. She stood with half her body hidden behind the doorframe, shoulders hunched toward her ears, arms wrapped around herself.

Liz straightened, and he watched her shove the fury away. She gave him a nod, and he turned to Edie.

“Yes. We’re going.”

* * *

Once he got Edie and Liz settled on a hard, vinyl sofa against a wall he could see from his office, Lestrade handed his phone off to a grumpy Donovan with instructions to get the biggest, best quality image they could from the photo.

Donovan glanced at the picture, then gave him a skeptical look.

“I know,” he said. “Just tell them to do the best they can.”

Donovan looked past him, to where Liz sat next to Edie, and her face went smug.

“Traffic duty,” he threatened. “Not a word about it. The girl wouldn’t come without her.”

“I’m sure you put up a big fight.” Smirking, Donovan turned and moved off.

Lestrade collared a young, uniformed officer, Harrison, whose stack of paperwork wasn’t quite as tall as that of those around him, and sent him to keep an eye on Edie. “She could probably use some food,” he called after Harrison, who moved eagerly toward Edie and Liz’s couch.

While he waited for Donovan to return with the photo, Lestrade hung the map on which he’d marked the locations of Ethan’s house, Edie’s house, and Amanda’s murder scene on the wall with some thumb tacks and gazed at it with grim satisfaction. He was close. If they could pull anything out of the photo Ethan took at all, it’d be the biggest lead they’d had yet, and he was more and more certain that Ethan’s phone records would be crucial.

Donovan stepped into his office fifteen minutes later with a folder in her hand. She handed it to him and shrugged. “This is the best they could do.”

The folder contained three copies of the photo, in three different sizes. The largest, just bigger than a sheet of paper, was almost useless, the pixels so blown that beyond guessing people were involved, he had no idea what the picture showed.

A photo about half that size was better, but only marginally so than the one on his phone’s screen. He studied it anyway, cursing Ethan’s bad timing. The woman’s back was to the camera, and the man’s face was buried in her neck, obscured by her hair. He sat on a desk, the woman straddling his lap.

The woman’s outfit—or what was left of it—was interesting, though, considering their location. Her upper half was bare, but she still wore a stereotypically sexualized version of a school uniform skirt, paired with stockings and Mary Janes. All Lestrade could see of the man were his arms, one shoulder, and his legs, but he didn’t seem to be wearing anything other than a watch, which gleamed from the wrist that hadn’t disappeared up the woman’s skirt. Some darker blurs on the tile floor were probably his clothes.

“Prostitute?” Donovan asked.

“Possibly. At least one of them has access to the school, if not both. Either way, their particular form of role play is less than exemplary.”

The final picture was only twice the size of his phone’s screen, but it was the sharpest of the three. Lestrade studied it, hoping it would tell him something the other photos hadn’t.

“Could you ask Liz to come in?” he asked Donovan, his focus on the photo. It took a couple seconds to realize Donovan hadn’t moved. He looked up and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Liz?” she repeated, looking delighted in that mean way usually restricted to fourteen-year-old boys on the footie pitch.

“Ms. Carrow,” he repeated flatly. He stared at Donovan until she and her smirk left.

Liz came in a few seconds later, and Lestrade handed her the two smaller photos. Donovan leaned in the doorway, still smirking, and Lestrade ignored her. Liz sank into one of his extra chairs, her head bent over the photos. Her eyes moved from one to the other, and after a moment he saw her gaze unfocus as her thoughts turned inward.

Finally she looked up at him and shook her head. “Sorry. He could be anyone, you can see so little of him. And none of our female teachers are that thin _and_ that blonde.”

“Could be a wig,” Donovan said.

“Wig’s a bit precarious for sex, isn’t it?” Lestrade asked.

Donovan shrugged. “Judging by her outfit, appearance was more important than practicality.”

Liz looked down at the photos again. “If it was a wig…Kathryn Stovall or Emily Woods.” She paused. “Cam Nguyen, as well.”

“And you,” Donovan said.

Liz looked over her shoulder at Donovan’s bland face, then at Lestrade. She lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “Yes. And me.”

“Do you know where they are?” Lestrade asked.

“Mr. Bothwell’s history classroom,” Liz said immediately.

Donovan came off the doorframe. “The one with the possession arrest?”

Liz looked startled, but it swiftly shifted to recognition. “I’d forgotten about that.” She shook her head. “This isn’t him, though.”

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked.

“This man’s skin is several shades lighter than Mr. Bothwell’s.”

Lestrade looked at Donovan, and she gave him a scrunched look of apology. He sighed. “Right.”

Before he could figure out what to do next, the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, surprised to find reception on the other end.

“There’s a Mr. Bauer here from Thomas Cranmer School to see you, sir,” Marsha said.

Lestrade blinked. “Bauer? Why?”

“About some case or other, I expect,” she said, annoyance creeping into her voice. The corner of Lestrade’s mouth twitched. In the background, he heard a sharp, deep protest. “He keeps going on about being a city councillor.”

Lestrade’s mouth twitched again as he imagined the imposing Head trying to talk his way past Marsha’s bland indifference. He looked up at Donovan and noticed Harrison and Edie walking toward the exit. He lowered the phone and covered the receiver.

“Where are they going?” he asked Donovan, jutting his chin toward Harrison and Edie. Donovan and Liz turned in unison. With a quick glance back at Lestrade, Donovan started after them.

Lestrade brought the phone back to his mouth as he watched Donovan overtake Harrison. They spoke briefly, and she came back toward the office as Harrison and Edie stepped into the hallway. “Thanks, Marsha,” he said into the phone. “You might as well send him up.”

“Right.” Without saying goodbye, she hung up.

Donovan stuck her head into the office. “Loo and vending machine.”

Lestrade nodded, and Donovan went back to her desk.

“Bauer?” Liz asked. “Gerald’s here?”

“He checks in periodically.” Lestrade didn’t bother hiding the dryness in his voice.

One side of Liz’s mouth curled up, and then her eyes widened. “Oh! He called me earlier, while you were talking to Edie. I told him she’d been found, she was safe. That must be why he’s come.” She frowned. “Seems a bit odd, though.”

“Not if you’d seen how many of his calls I’ve ignored.”

Liz did smile, then, and over her head, Lestrade saw Gerald Bauer enter the room. A sergeant pointed him toward Lestrade’s office, and Lestrade gathered up the photos, slid them back into their folder, and stacked it neatly on top of the rest of his case notes.

Liz stood as Bauer entered the office, and he stopped, surprised to see her.

“Liz. What are you doing here?”

“Ms. Carrow found Edie Frost,” Lestrade said. “What are _you_ doing here, Mr. Bauer?”

Bauer straightened. “I heard Edie had been found, and I wanted to check on the progress of the case.” He looked over his shoulder. “I saw Miss Frost in the hallway. Has she been able to tell you much?”

“Yes.” Lestrade watched the other man’s eyebrows climb his forehead.

“Well?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share that with you, sir.”

Bauer glowered. “But you can share it with Ms. Carrow?”

Liz opened her mouth to respond, but Lestrade beat her to it. “Ms. Carrow is here at Edie’s request, as emotional support in the absence of her parents,” he said gently but firmly. “She is not privy to any case details you couldn’t learn by reading the paper.”

Not precisely true, but Lestrade didn’t care. He wanted Bauer out of his office so he could think.

Bauer huffed. “Well, at least you found the girl before she was killed. Two murders is bad enough for the school.”

Lestrade swallowed his anger. “Glad to be of service.”

“For God’s sake, Gerald,” Liz said. “The school will survive. These children have _not_.”

Bauer looked at her and shook his head. “This is why you’ll never make Head, Liz. You never bother with the big picture.”

“I don’t want to be Head,” Liz said quietly. “I never have.”

“Yes. Well.” Bauer seemed to remember his manners and stepped forward, thrusting one hand toward Lestrade. “I trust you’ll keep me apprised of any developments.”

Lestrade didn’t bother answering that. He took Bauer’s hand, looking down as a flash of silver caught his eye. A gaudy watch peered from Bauer’s coat sleeve. An ostentatious piece, designed to call attention to itself and the money that had been spent on it. Even the man’s watch was annoying.

“Goodbye,” Lestrade said, moving forward so that Bauer had no choice but to back out the office door. With a nod, the Head turned and retraced his steps across the room and out the door.

Lestrade looked toward the sofa against the wall, but Edie and Harrison weren’t back yet. He frowned, but it hadn’t been that long. The nearest vending machine was a floor down.

“That was pleasant,” Liz said.

“I hope he’s not that obnoxious all the time.” Lestrade pulled the smallest, clearest photo of the couple in the school and taped it to his map.

“Oh, usually. He used to be a decent Head, but getting elected Highgate councillor put stars in his eyes. Now it’s all about politics.” Liz watched him from her chair. “Should I go? I mean, I’d hate to be privy to case details I shouldn’t.”

Lestrade turned to find her smirking at him and felt himself grin stupidly back. “Nah, you’re all right.”

Liz turned and peered through his glass wall.

“She’s fine,” he said. “It’s a bit of a walk to the nearest food source from here, unless you count coffee.”

She turned back toward him but didn’t say anything further. He studied the map and photo, but he could feel the elation that had thrummed through him when Edie had produced the photo seeping out through the soles of his shoes. He needed more. A photo with no faces and three dots on a map weren’t enough, even with Edie’s story pulling them together. He needed a name to go with his probable motive.

Donovan appeared in his doorway, a rare excitement animating her features.

“Please tell me the phone records are finally in,” he said.

She nodded, grinning. “They’re faxing them over now. I’ll bring them as soon as they’re done printing.”

She disappeared again, and Lestrade felt like his skin was vibrating. “Yes,” he said, almost hissing. “Finally.”

He stepped toward the map, leaning closer to the photo, until his nose was only two inches away. His eyes flicked over it, and then again, and then stopped. Another wave of adrenaline flooded through him, and for a long moment Lestrade stared at the detail he’d seen half a dozen times before but never truly observed. He didn’t breathe, didn’t move, just stared at the photo in wonder and triumph and wondered if this was what it felt like to be Sherlock Holmes.

“Liz,” he whispered. Then louder, “Liz. Come here.”

She was at his side in three steps. He pointed to the picture.

“What’s this, right here?”

She frowned. “A watch.”

“A big watch,” he said. The excitement was apparent in his voice, and she looked up, eyes wide. “A bloody great big watch. Platinum, probably, or titanium or whatever the most expensive is, with a big square, black face. Onyx, maybe. A bloody great gaudy watch that lets everyone know how important you are and how much money you’ve got, just in case your obnoxious personality doesn’t do the trick.”

He whirled and picked up the phone, and behind him he heard Liz gasp and say, “Gerald?”

He dialed reception. “Marsha! Has Mr. Bauer the city councillor left?”

“’Course he has,” Marsha said. “Ages ago.”

Lestrade slammed down the receiver, took two long strides to his office door, and bellowed Donovan’s name into the room without bothering to check where she was. He turned. Liz stood in front of the photo, her hand covering her mouth.

Lestrade pulled one of the larger photos from their folder and impaled it into the wall with a thumb tack. Liz jumped, lowering her hand.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice faint. “That watch. God, he was so proud of that watch when he bought it last year. A _watch_.”

Lestrade tapped the photo. “The son of a bitch,” he said happily.

Donovan rushed into the room, her hands full of paper. “We’ve got a name!”

“Gerald Bauer,” Lestrade said.

Donovan wilted a little. “Yes. How’d you know?”

He waved his hands impatiently, and she handed over Ethan Trent’s phone records. He flipped to the page she’d flagged and read Ethan and Amanda’s last text conversation.

> _LOL i still can’t believe this  
>  [attached file: image]_
> 
>  _ethan, it’s not funny!_
> 
>  _yes it is. I’m gonna send it to stephan_
> 
>  _no, don’t! we could get in trouble_
> 
>  _god will you relax? We’re not going to get in trouble. Maybe I’ll send it to HIM._
> 
>  _No! Please don’t. He’ll be angry._
> 
>  _Then he shouldn’t b shagging n school._
> 
>  _Ethan, please. Let’s just forget about it. K? xx_

There was about a five minute gap here, and then:

> _From: +7010948720194  
>  To: head@thomascranmer.org  
> Someone’s been naughty!  
> [attached file: image]_
> 
>  _I emailed it him. HA._
> 
>  _what?!_
> 
>  _I emailed it 2 him. Don’t worry – sent fm my phone. he won’t know it’s me._
> 
>  _You idiot the school has our mobiles on file._
> 
>  _So?_
> 
>  _I’m coming over._
> 
>  _No! My parents are here._
> 
>  _I’M COMING OVER. 20 mins_
> 
>  _No no no. R u mad at me? Why r u mad?_

Seven minutes after that:

> _Amanda?_

And then, almost two hours later, at 1:23am, a final text from Ethan:

> _R u back yet? goodnight x_

Lestrade set the records on his desk and looked up at Donovan. “Get me a warrant.”

She gave him her predatory smile. “Right.”

As Donovan left, Liz turned from where she’d been staring out at the room through his glass wall while he read. “Edie’s not back yet,” she said, concern making that small vertical line appear above her nose.

Lestrade’s gaze flicked over the room, at the lack of sixteen-year-old girl it held. He stepped out of his office, Liz behind him, and moved toward the exit across the room. He waved off Donovan’s questioning shout, turned into the corridor and headed toward the stairs. He could feel himself moving faster with every step, could hear Liz’s footsteps behind him. He swung himself into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, using the handrail to propel himself around the curve at the landing.

He skidded into the hallway on the floor below and stared for half a second at the lonely vending machine tucked into a niche in the wall. Liz’s fingers touched his back and he was off again, sprinting down the stairwell to the ground floor.

The doors opened with a bang and Lestrade burst into the lobby. He heard Liz jump the last few stairs and land behind him. He turned toward the reception desk, intending to ask Marsha if she’d seen Edie or Harrison leave, and stopped.

Harrison leaned against the wall in the middle of the lobby, next to the door for the small, unisex toilet. He straightened when he saw Lestrade, and his eyes widened. “What is it?” he asked.

“Where’s Edie?” Lestrade stalked toward him.

Harrison backed up half a step and hooked a thumb at the door. “In there.”

“What are you doing down here in the first place?” Lestrade was trying very hard not to shout, and again he felt Liz’s fingers brush his back. He forced himself to breathe.

“Vending machine on the second floor’s out of order. We came down here, and then she said she didn’t feel well. She’s been in there ever since.” Harrison shifted his weight and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t want to rush her if she was, you know, sick.”

Lestrade looked at Liz, and she moved past them both and knocked lightly on the door. “Edie?” She waited a moment, then tilted her head closer to the door. “Edie, love?” she called more loudly. “Are you all right?”

She glanced at him, worry in her eyes, and tried the handle. It was locked.

“Marsha!” Lestrade bellowed. “We need the key!”

“I could break it down, sir,” Harrison offered.

“Let’s try the key first, hey?” Lestrade turned toward the reception desk to see Marsha hurrying toward them, a scowl on her face.

“All right, all right,” she said, slapping the key into his palm. “You don’t have to bloody yell.”

Lestrade unlocked the door and opened it a few inches. “Edie? Edie, I’m coming in.” When he didn’t get a response, he pushed the door open all the way, stopped, and sighed. “Bloody buggering hell.”

The bin had been dragged beneath the small window at the top of the wall, which had been forced open. It was just big enough to fit a thin sixteen-year-old girl. The small room was empty but for bin, toilet, and sink.

“Why would she run?” Liz asked at his shoulder. “She was safe here. She couldn’t be safer anywhere else.”

Lestrade turned to Marsha. “Were they down here when Bauer showed up?” He pointed at Harrison.

Marsha scrunched up her face and stared at the ceiling for several seconds. More than she needed, Lestrade was sure, just to torture him. “No, but they came out of the stairwell as he was walking toward it.”

Harrison’s eyebrows rose. “The big guy wearing a suit on a Saturday?”

“Did he say anything to her?” Lestrade asked him.

“Just that he was glad to see she was safe. Then he breezed right past us.”

“God,” Liz said. “She must have realized…but how?”

“She might not have,” Lestrade said, pacing. “She might have just panicked. It doesn’t matter right now—we just have to find her. Harrison.”

Harrison straightened. “Sir.”

“Tell Donovan what’s happened, have her call me.” Lestrade turned on his heel and headed for the exit, his car keys already in his hand.

His car was parked right in front of the building, enjoying the privileges of rank, and he sprinted toward it. It wasn’t until he’d thrown himself behind the wheel and shut his door that he realized Liz was crawling into the passenger seat next to him.

“What—“

“I’m not losing another one,” she said, her face fierce.

Lestrade stared at her for a second, then turned the key in the ignition. “Fine,” he said. “But only because I don’t have time to argue with you.”

“Agreed.” She fastened her seatbelt.

As he was backing into the street, she made a small noise, and Lestrade turned his head to look at her.

“God!” she cried, arms crossed over her stomach and hands in fists, “I told him where she was!”

“Hey.” Lestrade swung the car around and put it in drive. “You couldn’t have known.” Though he probably should have. But God, the sheer _arrogance_ of the man, using his position to dig for information, to gauge how close Lestrade was to figuring it out. Lestrade’s hands tightened on the wheel, and he tried to guess which way Edie would have gone.

His phone rang.

“What the hell is going on?” Donovan asked.

“Edie’s scarpered. I want Bauer arrested as soon as possible.” His phone beeped in his ear, and he pulled it away from his face. Nikki was calling. He ignored it and kept talking to Donovan. “Get the damn warrant and pick him up.”

“Right. Do you want some uniforms to go after the girl?”

“If you can pull some away from their desks, yeah, but she’s got a head start on us. She’s probably on a bus by now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for her, of course.”

“But you just said she could be anywhere.”

Lestrade took a corner too quickly. He didn’t even know where he was going. He took his foot off the accelerator, slowing the car to a crawl. “I have to try.”

Donovan was quiet a moment. “While I wait for the warrant, I’ll have Transport run her Oyster card. Might give you some direction.”

“Thank you. Let me know when you’ve got him.” He ended the call, noticed Nikki had left a voice message. He put the phone back in his pocket.

“Okay,” Liz said, calm now. Her face was turned to the window, scanning the faces of pedestrians as they passed. “You’re sixteen and you’re scared. Where do you go?”

“How about Scotland Yard?” Lestrade snapped.

“Well and fine,” Liz replied, still infuriatingly calm, “until the man who killed two of your friends shows up. Then what?”

He blew a breath out his mouth. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he ignored it and looked at Liz. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Where do you go?” She sat very still, but her hands were fisted in the loose fabric of her sweater, and her eyes were hard.

“Someone safe. She went to you.” He flipped on the siren long enough to run a traffic light, then turned it back off. “Her brothers, maybe. They’re staying with friends while their parents are out of town.”

He stopped at an intersection, feeling like an idiot, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He had Edie’s mobile number from the text containing Ethan’s photo. He called it, muttering _come on come on come on_ under his breath. Liz watching him, knuckles showing white beneath her skin.

The call went to voicemail. Cursing, he hung up and dialed again. No answer. He pulled back into traffic.

As his phone rang Edie’s for the third time, his phone beeped, and he pulled it from his ear, hoping Edie was calling him back. Instead saw a text from Nikki.

 _999!_

A feeling like vertigo swept through Lestrade’s body, and he hit Nikki’s speed dial with this thumb.

“What?” he said as soon as she picked up, his voice lost somewhere between a gasp and a yell. “What’s wrong?”

Nikki made a muffled, high-pitched noise of frustration. “Rule number one! _Answer your bloody phone!_ ”

No tears, no pain. He relaxed enough to snap, “I’m kind of in the middle of something, love. A girl’s gone missing and—“

“Edie Frost?”

Lestrade blinked and felt his mouth droop open. “What? How do you—”

“Because she just called me!” Nikki cried, and now there were tears, the angry kind that baffled Lestrade more than the usual ones. “This girl I know from the youth symphony just called me up out of the blue because she needed somewhere safe to go so you could help her because she couldn’t stay at the Yard anymore because he was there, whoever _he_ is, and I didn’t know what else to do so I told her where we live and she’s on her way here now and I have _no idea what’s going on_ and you _wouldn’t answer your phone_.”

There was a pause.

Lestrade pulled the car over, not caring that he was double-parked and blocking a lane. “Hang on. Edie Frost is on her way to _our flat_?” Beside him, Liz stiffened.

“Yes!” Nikki sniffed and then said, her voice smaller, “Is that…did I do right? Should I—what should I do?”

He turned his head to look at Liz, and they stared at each other. He knew his eyes were probably as wide as hers. “You’re fine. You’re perfect. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. Let her in, then lock the door and pretend you’re not home if anyone but me shows up. Understand?”

Nikki sniffed again. “Yes.”

“Good girl. I’m on my way. Fast as I can.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll be all right. Promise.”

He closed the phone. For another half dozen heartbeats, he and Liz stared at each other. Then he turned back to the windshield, put the car in gear, turned on the siren, and drove.

After a few seconds, Liz’s hand settled over his on the gear shift.

* * *

Lestrade stopped the car in the middle of the street in front of his building, barely putting it into park before throwing open his door. He’d radioed Donovan for back-up as he drove, but he wasn’t waiting for it to arrive to make sure Nikki was okay.

“Stay here,” he told Liz, and then he was out of the car and jogging toward the building entrance, his keys in his hand. He’d just stepped up onto the pavement when he heard another car door slam and turned to see Liz running toward him. “I said to stay there.”

She reached him, grabbed his arm, and spun him so that he looked down the street. She pointed. “That’s Gerald’s car.”

Halfway down the street, a silver BMW sedan lurked next to the curb, standing out amongst the Ford hatchbacks and Nissans.

Lestrade stood there long enough to say, “Fuck.” Then he was sprinting for the door.

He took the stairs three at a time, hauling himself up to the second floor by the banister, hardly breathing. From above came the shrill scream of a teenage girl, a scream he recognized despite having never heard it in that authentically terrified a tone, and a burst of paternal rage carried him up the final flight and through the door of his flat.

The open door of his flat.

Inside, Gerald Bauer struggled in the middle of his living room. He gripped Edie by the hair with one hand and had twisted the whimpering girl into a helpless, bent position. With his other hand, Bauer backhanded Nikki across the side of her head, spinning her into an end table.

She cried out, and fueled by that sound, Lestrade hit Bauer with a rugby tackle that took both men off their feet. A shriek told Lestrade Edie had gone down with them, but then she was scrambling up and away, stepping on Lestrade’s leg as she went. He pushed himself up enough to punch Bauer twice in the face, then searched for his feet.

“Girls!”

He half-turned. Liz stood in the entryway, arms open. Edie was already stumbling toward her, sobbing, but Nikki stared wide-eyed at him from the floor near the sofa, one hand cradling the side of her face.

“Go!” he told her, and something in his voice got her on her feet and moving toward Liz, who was already pushing Edie down the short hallway to the door.

A noise behind him made Lestrade turn, and Bauer’s fist caught him in the mouth. He stumbled, tripped over a broken lamp, and went down. Bauer kicked him in the ribs, and the air left Lestrade’s lungs.

“Daddy!” Nikki shrieked from somewhere outside the flat.

“No no no,” he groaned, struggling to his hands and knees. He could hear frantic voices in the hall, but they faded, and the relief made his arms shake.

Bauer kicked him again. Lestrade’s arms gave out, and he fell onto his side. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision as his lungs struggled for air against the vice of pain gripping his chest. Bauer was moving behind him, and Lestrade made it to his hands and knees before the wire wrapped around his throat.

There was more pain as the wire sliced into his skin, as Lestrade’s ribs ground against each other, as Bauer hauled him up onto his knees and proceeded to strangle him just as he’d strangled Ethan Trent and Amanda Ling.

But even with his body crying out for oxygen and his vision dwindling to a dizzy spot of living room wall, Lestrade could feel that Bauer didn’t really know what he was doing. He was big, and he was strong, but he was a civilian through and through—a school head, a politician who had married well and never had to get his hands dirty before now.

And Lestrade was no panic-stricken teen.

He needed only one foot beneath him, and Lestrade was surging upward and snapping his head back into Bauer’s nose. There was a grunt, a slight loosening of the wire around Lestrade’s throat, and Lestrade slammed his elbow into Bauer’s ribs twice.

Bauer gasped and fell back a step, which was all the room Lestrade needed to turn and punch him. His sight was still a blurred mess, however, and his punch landed on Bauer’s throat instead his face, which suited Lestrade just fine.

Bauer collapsed, clutching his windpipe, making no sound despite his open, desperate mouth. Lestrade took quick, shallow breaths, each one full of knives, and his vision cleared enough to see the gratifying shade of purple Bauer had turned. The big man writhed on the carpet, chest heaving with the effort of pulling tiny squeaks of air through his throat. Lestrade waited until the squeaks turned into half-breaths and Bauer’s skin color faded to a deep red. Then, because Nikki’s cry of pain still echoed in his ears, Lestrade kicked Bauer in the face as hard as could and watched the other man go limp.

For a long while, he wasn’t sure how long, Lestrade stood in the middle of his wrecked living room and stared at the unconscious man on his floor while he focused on breathing. Each breath caused a sharp pain in his side that rippled through his entire chest. It was a familiar pain, and Lestrade grimly resigned himself to dealing with the ache of cracked ribs for the next several weeks. His mouth was full of blood, and he gingerly prodded the cut on the back of his lower lip with his tongue. All in all, it could have been worse.

He wanted to go to Nikki, but he couldn’t leave Bauer alone. Donovan would be here soon, and Nikki was with Liz. He eased himself into an armchair and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Donovan stormed in with a cadre of officers, which she pointed toward the unconscious Bauer. Lestrade marveled, yet again, how good she was at being imperious.

“Nikki?” he asked as she came toward him. He tried to push himself out of the chair, but the pain that flared through his ribcage made him gasp and sink back against the cushion.

Donovan raised an eyebrow. “See you’ve let yourself get banged about again.” She held out a hand and, grimacing, Lestrade let her pull him to his feet.

“Nikki?” he repeated, wrapping his right arm protectively across his chest.

“She’s fine. Outside with Edie, your Ms. Carrow, and half a dozen of London’s finest.”

He nodded, the last of his adrenaline and anger seeping away. “I’m going down. Have you got this?”

Donovan, hands on hips, surveyed his flat. The men she’d brought with her had flipped Bauer onto his stomach and cuffed him. He seemed to be coming around, based on the groans being muffled by the carpet. “Not a problem.”

“Right.” Sighing, Lestrade moved carefully toward the doorway and down the stairs. The skin of his left forearm started to sting, and he twisted it until he could see the rug burn stretching toward his elbow. His cuff button was gone. He realized he wasn’t wearing his coat, had apparently left the Yard without it. He hadn’t noticed before, but now, as he stepped outside, the cold bit through his shirt as though it wasn’t there.

Nikki stood next to his car, huddled near Edie and Ms. Carrow. A few feet away, a handful of uniforms stood around looking attentive. As soon as she saw him, Nikki let out a cry that might have been a word and raced toward him. Lestrade pulled his arm away from his ribs and braced himself.

He couldn’t stop the grunt of pain as Nikki threw herself against him, but neither of them noticed. He hugged her as hard as she was hugging him, ignoring the sharp ache radiating through his chest. She sobbed against his shirt front as he muttered soothing nonsense in her ear and stroked her hair. No one bothered them.

After a few minutes, Nikki sniffed and lifted her head. As she pulled away half a step, wiping her face with both hands, Lestrade couldn’t hide his wince. She froze. “Oh God, did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. God, I’m sorry. I—“

He squeezed her shoulders to stop her talking before the crying started again in earnest. “I’ll be fine. A few cracked ribs aren’t going to keep me from you.”

Her entire face wobbled for half a second, but then she sucked in a deep breath and forced herself under control. She wiped one stray tear from her face and looked him over. “You haven’t even got a coat.”

He felt one corner of his mouth twist upward. She’d gone into caretaker mode. It was how her mother handled stressful situations as well. He gave it twenty minutes before she was trying to feed him.

“Neither do you.” With one hand he gently turned her face until he could see where Bauer had struck her. She’d have a nice black eye for the next week or two, at least. “You’ll have something to talk about at school for a while. Your mother is going to kill me.”

She sniffed again. “Probably.”

“You all right?”

She nodded. “A bit cold, now you mention it.”

“Me too. Come on.”

They walked toward Liz and Edie, his arm again coming up to cradle his ribs. Nikki clung to his other arm with both hands, as though he might try to escape.

Liz smiled as they approached, but it was equal parts reassurance and worry, and he could see her assessing him. Edie hovered behind Liz, pressed against her back, but as soon as Lestrade stopped next to them, she turned and wrapped herself around him instead. He winced again.

“I’m so sorry!” she cried, her forehead pressing into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry I left but he was there and I suddenly remembered something Amanda had said about getting expelled and I realized that maybe he was the man in the picture and then I was sure of it and he’d come to get me too and just had to get away and I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to I didn’t mean for any of this I—“ She dissolved into hiccups and a small, keening sound, and after a few more seconds, Lestrade gently pried her off him.

“It’s all right. We’re all fine, yeah? And we’ve got him now. It’s over.” He lifted her chin to make her look at him. “It’s over.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and gave him a small smile. Liz pulled her back to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Nikki leaned against Lestrade, shivering, and he sent a constable in to find a couple coats. Liz and Edie still had theirs, having never taken them off once leaving Liz’s flat earlier. Lestrade realized he had no idea what time it was.

Liz lifted her head from the girl tucked into her side and met his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said. “For getting them out.”

“Thank you,” she responded, “for keeping him inside.” Her mouth twitched, and Lestrade felt himself smile. Nikki looked up at him, and he bent and kissed the top of her head.

The constable returned with two coats pillaged from the hall closet, and Lestrade made Nikki take the heavier of the two. It hung on her slim frame like a hanger, making her look years younger, and Lestrade couldn’t help grinning at her.

An ambulance turned onto the street, sirens silent, and stopped behind the herd of police cars blocking the street. A group of paramedics, burdened with medical bags and a stretcher, ran past their huddled group and into the building. Another ambulance arrived behind the first before they’d disappeared into the door.

“God, Dad, what’d you do to him?” Nikki asked, staring after the paramedics with wide eyes.

Lestrade didn’t answer. He could feel Liz staring at him, but he resolutely watched the door to the building until the paramedics brought Bauer out on the stretcher, still only half-conscious, and loaded him into the first ambulance.

Donovan followed, watching the entire process and directing two of her team to ride in the ambulance with Bauer. Then she walked toward Lestrade.

“I hope you know what’s going on,” she said. “I’m pretty sure this is the first time a murder investigation has ended in your flat.”

“I won’t make a habit of it.” He pulled his right arm away from his ribs in order to gesture at Nikki and Edie. Nikki still hadn’t let go of his other arm. “We’ll need statements from these two. I know basically what happened, but they can give us more detail. Then we need to—“

“ _You_ need to go to hospital.”

Lestrade frowned. “I do _not_ need—“

“ _All_ of you.” Donovan crossed her arms. “These girls have been physically assaulted, and you can’t take a full breath without nearly passing out.” She turned to Liz. “How about you?”

“I’m not hurt,” Liz said. Edie stiffened and looked at her with large, scared eyes. Liz gave her a reassuring squeeze. “But if I could ride along, I think Edie would feel more comfortable.”

Donovan nodded. “Fine by me.”

“Hey,” Lestrade said, “since when are you in charge?”

Donovan raised an eyebrow, stretched out two fingers, and shoved Lestrade in the shoulder. His body automatically countered the movement, causing pain to burst in his chest and dance along his ribs. He staggered back a step, gasping. “Hey!” Nikki cried. Donovan just looked at him.

“Right,” he said, voice tight. “You’re in charge.”

“Thought so. In the ambulance, all of you.”

They obeyed.

* * *

Lestrade leaned against the side of the ambulance as it rumbled through London. Nikki sat on his right, leaning her head against his shoulder. Across from them, Liz and Edie sat in similar positions. The poor girl still shook, and Lestrade figured it would take a good bit of therapy before she was able to move past the last few days.

His gaze slid over to Liz only to find her watching him in turn. She smiled, the same smile she’d given him in her flat that morning, and a brief burst of weightlessness flashed through his stomach. He smiled back. He hurt like hell, and God knew when he’d be able to wrest his flat away from Anderson’s forensics team, but Edie Frost was alive and his daughter was safe, and Lestrade felt content to sit in this blasted ambulance and just smile at Liz Carrow for a while.

Nikki shifted and began rummaging through her coat until she could reach her jeans pocket, from which she produced her phone. Not lifting her head from his shoulder, she opened the keyboard and rapidly typed a message.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated.

Lestrade looked down at his daughter, who gazed at him expectantly. He pulled the phone from his pocket and opened the message.

 _She likes you._

Frowning, he turned to Nikki and opened his mouth, but she shook her head and pointed at the phone. Rolling his eyes, he typed out a response.

 _Who?_

Nikki’s phone beeped, and she gave an exaggerated sigh. A flurry of thumbs, and his phone vibrated.

 _Ms. Carrow, dummy. Who do you think?_

Another buzz, while he was still reading the first message.

 _You should ask her out._

Lestrade blinked at his phone screen, then turned his head and blinked at his daughter. Nikki stared back for a moment, then bent over her phone again.

 _Well you should! And I can tell you like her too because your ears have gone all red._

Lestrade very pointedly put his phone back in his pocket, and Nikki huffed in what could have been either amusement or annoyance. Lestrade carefully avoided the curious look Liz was giving him and the heat creeping up his neck, instead focusing on the small windows in the back of the ambulance. Donovan was following them in a squad car and would monitor Bauer while Lestrade got his ribs wrapped and a doctor ran Nikki and Edie through the necessary examinations. Then they could head back to the Yard, get statements from the girls, and—

His phone buzzed again.

“Oh, for the love of—Nikki, enough.”

“It’s not me!” she said, sitting up properly for the first time since the ambulance had started moving. His arm felt cold.

Scowling, he fished the phone from his pocket and then wished he could throw it out one of ambulance windows.

Holmes.

 _Belgium case wrapped ahead of schedule. God, I’m good. Email the files from your teenage murders; I’ll probably have it solved before my plane lands._

Lestrade read it twice, smiled to himself, and replied.

 _Ta, but nothing left to solve. Normal coppers good enough this round._

Nikki settled back against his arm, and when he looked up, Liz was smiling softly at him.

Lestrade closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and hummed something that might have once been a Katy Perry song under his breath as the ambulance rocked beneath him.


	4. Epilogue: Liz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock Holmes finally appears.

**EPILOGUE:  
Liz**

“So it was all because of his reputation?” Liz asked, looking as though someone had just offered her a live frog for dessert.

Lestrade adjusted his silverware, then forced his hands to stop fidgeting. “Successful politicians can’t be entertaining prostitutes in the school they run. The public tends to frown upon that.”

She shook her head. “Those poor kids. I still can’t believe he actually killed them.”

He remembered the sensation of wire biting into his throat and had no trouble believing Bauer had killed two children over his career. Hell, he’d been willing to kill a policeman despite there being three witnesses. “Did they offer you his job?”

“Yes, but I don’t want it. They’ll have it filled by the end of the month, I’m sure.”

Lestrade smiled and watched her take a drink of wine. The waiter had cleared their plates away twenty minutes ago, but Liz seemed content to linger. He’d finally called her four days earlier, after a week of Nikki badgering him with hourly texts. Liz had agreed to dinner almost before he’d finished asking, and he’d picked a restaurant at random out of a three-month-old _Time Out_ and willed the criminal element of London to behave for just one night.

So far, it seemed to be working.

Liz had worn her hair up, and her dress showed off her shoulders and collarbone. Lestrade realized he was staring at the line of her neck again, and looked up to find her watching him. The flush in her cheeks deepened slightly, and she bit her lip to hide a smile as she set her wine glass back on the table. A mirroring rush of warmth flooded his chest.

“Should we get dessert?” he asked.

“Mmm, yes, but I have an idea.” She leaned forward, her smile irresistible. “There’s this tiny wine bar near my flat, and they do the most amazing crème brulee. A whole menu of flavors.” She raised her eyebrows. “Up for a walk?”

He tried not to grin like a schoolboy and was pretty sure he failed. “Absolutely.”

He looked around for their waiter and saw Sherlock Holmes instead, heading straight for his table.

“Oh, Christ.”

“What is it?” Liz asked.

Before he could try to explain, Holmes loomed over them. His eyes flicked over Liz and then focused on Lestrade. “You need to come with me right now.”

Lestrade ignored that for the moment. “How the _hell_ did you know where to find me?”

Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hand, annoyance tightening his eyes. “You left a _Time Out_ open on your desk. From there, it was a simple matter of cross-referencing your eating preferences with your intentions.”

“My eating pref—“

“I cracked the Dominic case.”

Lestrade spent a few seconds trying to catch up, but gave up, as he always did. The annoyance had lifted from Holmes’ forehead, replaced by the excitement that always made Lestrade feel twenty years older than he was. “Dominic case?”

“Yes! Dominic! Don’t you pay attention to your own cold cases? Triple homicide thirteen years ago in Greenwich.”

He did remember that one, actually. An entire family stabbed to death. “And you’ve solved it.”

“I had some spare time this evening. But if you don’t come with me _now_ , he’ll get away.”

“Okay, no, wait.” Lestrade pressed both hands against the tablecloth, trying to anchor himself against the sweeping tide of Holmes’ personality. Liz sat wide-eyed, her gaze moving from him to Holmes and back as though she were at a tennis match. “Why is time suddenly of the essence? That case has been lying around for over a decade.”

“I tipped him off, of course,” Holmes said.

Lestrade felt a headache coming on. “You solved a thirteen-year-old case, then let the murderer know you’d done it?”

“I solved the case to my satisfaction, but you, if I’m not mistaken, need tangible evidence. The only way to get that was to inform Robert Yarrow that his secret had been discovered, then follow him as he rid himself of the incriminating items you’re going to use to convict him.”

“What items?” Lestrade asked.

“That’s what we have to find out!”

“What makes you think he’d possibly have kept something incriminating all this time?”

“Because it was a crime of passion!” Sherlock almost yelled. He seemed to realize most of the restaurant was staring at them and leaned toward Lestrade, lowering his voice. “She was his mistress, but she wouldn’t leave her family. They had a huge blow-up, he stabbed her, and then her husband and son as well. But he loved her. The guilt would have eaten at him all these years. Of _course_ he kept something—photos, an article of her clothing, _something_. But now he needs to get rid of it before he leaves the country, and we have to catch him before he does.”

Lestrade could feel himself being pulled in, could feel the job taking over. He fought it, even though he knew it was useless. “Sherlock, I’m on a date!”

Holmes looked briefly back at Liz, who gave him a little wave.

“There’s no point continuing,” Holmes said. “She’s already decided whether or not she wants to sleep with you.”

Lestrade closed his eyes.

“I’ll wait outside,” Holmes said.

Lestrade heard him turn and walk away, but he didn’t open his eyes until the rustle of that great stupid coat had faded into the rising hum of the restaurant. He looked at Liz, who studied her hands, her shoulders stiff. She glanced up at him, then immediately looked back at her lap. Lestrade felt something inside him sag.

“Well,” she said, clearly forcing a light tone to her voice, “that was—“

“Mortifying,” he supplied. “I’m so sorry, Liz. He…sees things, details, and he can read them the way you or I read a book. But he hasn’t figured out yet—or maybe he just doesn’t care—that announcing the things he can see is not always appreciated. ”

She looked toward the restaurant’s exit, a frown creasing her forehead. She didn’t say anything for several seconds, and Lestrade sighed and pulled out his wallet. He threw enough cash on the table to cover their dinner and stood. Liz looked up at him.

“Come on,” he said softly. “I’ll get you a cab.”

She stood slowly, and he led her to the coat check. He held her coat for her, and she turned and watched him as he put on his own.

“Did he really solve a murder in his spare time?”

Lestrade checked his pockets and tried not to sigh again. “Apparently.”

“Does he do this a lot?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“And you’re the only person he can call when he does?”

“I’m the only one who’ll listen to him.” Liz cocked her head, and Lestrade answered her unspoken question. “Because he’s always right.”

She nodded, took a breath, and smiled at him. “All right, then.”

They exited the restaurant. Holmes paced a few yards down the sidewalk, but Lestrade ignored him. He flagged down a cab for Liz, paid the driver, and opened the door for her. Instead of getting inside, she simply looked at him.

“Look, Liz,” he said, “thank you so much for having dinner with me. It was…well, it was fantastic, actually, and I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. I understand if you—“

She pressed a hand to his chest. “Greg. Stop.” Her eyes moved past him for a moment, to where Holmes stood, radiating impatience Lestrade could almost feel pummeling his back. “He’s right, you know. I have already decided.”

Well, that was that, then. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but Liz took half a step forward and her hand slid up to the collar of his coat.

Then she was kissing him.

His hands found her waist, and she pressed closer for a few seconds before pulling slowly away. Her tongue darted out to touch her bottom lip, and his fingers twitched against her coat.

“Let me know when your next free evening is?” she said. “I still want to take you to that wine bar.”

He nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. Yes.”

She smiled, stepped back, and finally climbed into the cab. “Go do your job,” she said and shut the door.

Lestrade watched the cab pull away from the curb and meld into traffic, then he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and strode toward Holmes. He knew he was grinning, but he didn’t care.

Holmes eyed him. “Told you. Where’s your car?”

Lestrade led him around the corner. As he slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the siren, he had to stop himself from whistling.

end


End file.
